Wards of Faerie: The Dark Legacy of Shannara (12 page)

“I am certain. I won’t quit. The members of my Druid order will not quit. Have you, in death, decided we should? Do you tell us we must follow your lead?”

–I tell you nothing. The dead can only question or suggest–

“Then I say again we do not quit. Nor should you, if that is what you intend. Instead, you should help us.”

–You must help yourself, Ard Rhys. You are more able than I–

There was a challenge in his words, a veiled threat. But she sensed that he was still waiting, hoping for something more. Her mind raced, trying to discover what it was.

“I am willing to do that,” she answered. “To do whatever is necessary. I would begin my search, but I don’t know where to start. I have a story and the name of a girl and nothing more. I don’t even know if any of what is written is real. The tone suggests it is, but there are questions anyway. There cannot help but be questions.” She paused. “Do you know of this girl? Aleia Omarosian—that is her name. She is the one who wrote the diary. Do you know her?”

For the first time, the shade of Allanon did not answer right away.

–I know something of her–

She waited. “What is it you know?”

The shade did not answer. She contained her exasperation as the delay lengthened. “Did she write the diary? Is the diary true? Is there more that she can tell us of the Darkling boy who stole the Elfstones? Is there anything at all?”

Still the shade was silent, perhaps contemplating, perhaps weighing what answering might cost, perhaps doing something else entirely. She kept her peace, not wanting to disturb whatever debate was taking place, not wanting to do anything that would cost her a chance to learn even one new thing that could be useful.

When he spoke again, he surprised her.

–Have you considered the cost of your questions? To yourself? To others you care about? To the people you hope to save?–

She had no idea what he was talking about, and she hesitated before answering. “The Druids are prepared to give up their lives if it will help advance the efforts of the order. You know this. As for those
we seek to help, I think that doing nothing might cause them more grief still.”

–What if your efforts in this undertaking are for nothing? What if you are doomed to fail?–

“Then at least we will have tried and not let fate and chance dictate the outcome.”

–Fate and chance may do so anyway–

“I know that. To some extent, I am sure they will. But there will be some things we can influence, that we can change or make better or illuminate in ways that teach and guide us.”

–Brave words–

“Would you have us do nothing, Allanon? I’ll ask it again.”

It was a bold, almost accusatory question, but she could not help herself. She wanted a better response from him, a more positive and encouraging one. She would not leave here burdened with doubt and guilt. She would not leave it so. If that were all he had to offer, she would have been better off not coming.

“Speak to me!” she demanded.

But the shade said nothing. The seconds slipped past, and she wondered if she had lost her chance, if she had angered him sufficiently that he would refuse to help at all. There was nothing to make him do so. He was of the dead, and the dead cared little for the living, resentful and jealous that the living still possessed what had been taken forever from them.

Finally, Allanon moved, his black cloak shimmering. Slowly, he began to withdraw from her, sliding back across the Hadeshorn.

“Don’t, Allanon!” she called after him. “Don’t go!”

His voice hissed softly.

–For now, I must. Wait for me to come again–

Then his black form sank from sight and was gone, leaving her to stare at the empty lake as the first tinges of sunlight crested the jagged rims of the distant mountains and stained the waters brilliant gold.

In Paranor, Aphenglow rose, dressed, and left Bombax sleeping in her bed. She had missed him terribly in the time she had been away in Arborlon, but not so much, it appeared, as he had missed her. At
some point, they would be wed and she would bear his children. But that was in the distant future, for the Druids were not allowed to partner formally. Partnering for Aphenglow, as for most Elves, was just a word. The Elven kind bonded with hearts and a sense of commitment far stronger than what could be written or spoken. It was enough if you knew that your choice was for life. She and Bombax had promised themselves to each other long ago, shortly after meeting, knowing even then that they were meant to be together. Their union was as strong now as it would be when officially recorded or celebrated in public, and they were pledged never to belong to anyone but each other.

So she slept with him as a wife would with her husband, and she would be true to him until death.

She thought this as she left him and walked the empty halls of the Keep, searching for a place to begin her day. She carried with her the diary, intending to read it through once again, to think carefully on Aleia Omarosian’s words, to consider all possible ramifications. The Ard Rhys had asked them to look once again at everything, and she would do that now.

Or shortly after brewing tea and eating toasted bread for her morning meal, anyway.

After rereading the contents of the diary, she spent the better part of the day conversing with the others about possible interpretations of the phrasing and ideas for starting points in their search. But all of them had the same read on the diary’s entries and no fresh ideas for where to begin a search. Aphenglow kept thinking she was missing something, but try as she might she could not decide what that something was.

The day was nearly done when she trudged up the long stairways to the rooms that housed the Druid histories and provided Woostra with his working space. The hallway leading to these rooms was already dappled with twilight shadows when she reached them, the sunlight gone so far west that it cast almost no light. Soon, triggered by the descending darkness, the smokeless lamps would begin to burn, giving a warmer glow to spaces that now already seemed cold and abandoned.

She was almost to the library doors before she glimpsed the soft glow of lamps Woostra must have already lit. She knocked and waited.

“Come,” Woostra called from somewhere inside.

He was deep in a warren of rooms that housed the Druid papers, poring through sheaves of writings and clusters of files. It looked chaotic to Aphenglow, but Woostra seemed untroubled by the clutter. His head buried in an ancient tome, shoulders hunched as he bent over his worktable, he didn’t even bother to look up at her as she entered.

“What is it?”

She sat down on the end of a bench that was otherwise stacked with books and papers and files. “I just wondered if you had found anything.”

“No, I haven’t. Anyway, I don’t report to you. I report to the Ard Rhys.”

He was so abrupt about it she was taken aback. “I was just asking.”

She got up and started to walk out, and she was almost to the door when he called after her. “Aphenglow, wait.” She turned around. His head had lifted out of the book he had been absorbed in and there was a hint of contrition on his lean features. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I know you’re busy. You don’t need me bothering you while you are trying to do your work.”

“It’s not you who’s causing me trouble. It’s someone else. Close the door. Come back in and take a seat. I’ve something to tell you.”

Intrigued, she did as he asked and resumed her position on the bench. “Is something wrong?”

The narrow, bladed features wrinkled in distaste. “Something is always wrong. That’s the trouble with this order. Or maybe all Druid orders. Something is always wrong. And usually we cannot do anything about it. We just nudge it aside and hope for the best.”

He seemed genuinely distressed, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Is there something in particular that needs fixing?”

He shook his head dismissively. “No, no. I’m just rambling. I get discouraged sometimes. I expect you do, too. We are faced with such
obstacles, and we have so little support for our work. The Ard Rhys has given her entire life to helping the Races and they barely acknowledge her efforts. Mostly, they just want her—all of us, for that matter—gone. I might be only a scribe, not a Druid like the rest of you, but I have adopted your commitment and effort as my own. I have become one of you in all the ways that matter.”

She smiled gently. “You have, Woostra. No one would argue that. You have done more for us than anyone, and I cannot imagine how we would manage without you.”

Her words seemed to perk him up a bit, and he mumbled a few self-effacing phrases as a way of putting the matter to rest.

“We’re all tired and discouraged sometimes,” she added. “You are not alone in feeling that way.”

“Well, that might be so, but it still isn’t any reason for snapping at people.” He backed away from his worktable and swung his chair around so he was facing her. “I let personal feelings intrude on common sense. I was distressed over something that happened earlier and took it out on you. And I shouldn’t have.”

“It’s all right,” she repeated.

He shook his head dismissively. “Enough. On to other matters. I have something important to tell you, as I said. I have been searching our own histories and papers, and in the course of doing so I found something unexpected about Aleia Omarosian.”

He leaned forward. “I had thought that what I would find would have something to do with her parents, who were King and Queen of the Elven people at different points in their lives, the one right after the other. I also thought it was odd Aleia died so young and there was no explanation as to what had become of her. It seemed to me that if anything were to be found, it would be in the chronicles of those times, in the records of the families. What we have is incomplete and rather scant, but I thought there was a chance. But do you know what, Aphen?”

She shook her head. “What?”

He paused. “Now you must promise me first. I have a duty to report my findings to the Ard Rhys, and technically I shouldn’t tell anyone else before I tell her—not even one of her Druid followers. But I
like you and trust you, and you were the one who brought the diary here in the first place. So that gives you special dispensation, in my opinion. Still, I need your word. Until I speak of this to the Ard Rhys, you must keep it to yourself. Tell no one, not even Bombax. Can you do that?”

“I can,” she said at once. “I promise I will not tell anyone.” She gave him a wry smile. “Especially not Bombax.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Woostra rubbed his bony chin. “So it turns out I was looking in the wrong place. What I wanted wasn’t to be found in the records of the Elven Kings and Queens. It was right here.”

He took the ancient tome he had been studying when she entered and handed it to her, pointing at an entry.

The lettering at the top of the page spelled out a single word.

Aphenglow bent close and began to read.

Khyber Elessedil slept most of the day, curled up close by the shoreline of the Hadeshorn while the sun crept out of the eastern horizon and slowly worked its way across the sky toward twilight. She fell asleep not long after the departure of the shade of Allanon, exhausted from the previous day. Facing Allanon’s ghost had been stressful, and she still wasn’t certain when she woke at sunset if he intended to help her.

She could assume that his promise to return indicated he would at least consider answering some of her questions, but the extent of his willingness remained in doubt. He’d told her almost nothing of value when they talked before, and his recalcitrant attitude toward and outright disdain of her commitment to the tenets of the Fourth Druid Order suggested he was less than enthusiastic about what she was attempting. Dismissive, in point of fact. She knew he was a hard, secretive man; she had read the chronicles of his time and knew he had been the only Druid alive when the Sword of Shannara was recovered and brought to bear against the Warlock Lord. She had read how
he led the Elven struggle to withstand the collapse of the Forbidding and repel the invasion of the escaping demons. Finally, she had read how he’d died in his quest to destroy the Ildatch, killed by a terrible creature called a Jachyra. His death had marked the end of any Druid presence for three hundred years.

She had read it all, and she could tell from those readings that Allanon had been a powerful influence on the Races during his life. He had fought for their survival and died doing so. Nothing of what she had discovered suggested that he would be any different in death than he had been in life.

But she had hoped he might be more sympathetic to her struggle and consider trying to do something to help her.

When sunset approached and she was awake again and at least marginally rested, she rose and ate and drank from her small supply of provisions. She had come prepared to spend more than a single day in her efforts to summon one among the dead who would help her. That it was Allanon who had appeared had given her hope and raised her expectations that her needs were recognized and embraced. It was only in the unsettling aftermath of their talk that she wondered if she had been mistaken.