The Elfstones of Shannara (21 page)

“So.” He let the word hang for a moment in the silence of the little room. “We shall deceive the Demons who are already through the Forbidding by acting as if preparations to seek the Bloodfire are yet to be completed. We shall make it appear as if you have not left. The Demons know that it was I who brought Amberle here; they will expect me to be with her when she leaves. We can make use of that. We can focus their attention on me. By the time they realize that they have been misled, you should be well beyond their reach.”

Unless their spy is more resourceful than you anticipate, Wil wanted to say; but he decided not to.

“It all sounds very promising,” he said instead. “That seems to settle everything except the matter of when we should leave.”

The Druid leaned back in his chair. “You will leave at dawn.”

Wil stared at him in disbelief. “At dawn? Tomorrow?”

Amberle sprang to her feet. “That is impossible, Druid! We are exhausted! We have not slept in almost two days—we have to have more than a few hours rest before setting out again!”

Allanon held up his hands. “Peace, Elven girl. I understand this as well as you. But consider. The Demons know that you have come here for the purpose of carrying the seed of the Ellcrys to the Bloodfire. They know that you will attempt to leave the city, and they will be watching closely. But they will not be watching as closely now as they will in a day or two. Do you know why? Because they will expect you to rest first. That is exactly why you must leave at once. Surprise offers you your best chance to slip past them.”

Understanding flickered in Wil's eyes. This was the advantage that the Druid had hoped his deception at the High Council might yield them.

“There will be sufficient rest for you after you are gone from the city,” Allanon promised. “Two days of travel will enable you to reach the Elven outpost in Drey Wood; you can catch up on your lost sleep there. But delay in Arborlon is dangerous. The quicker you are gone from here, the better your chances.”

Wil hated to admit it, but there was logic in the Druid's argument. He glanced quickly at Amberle. She stared down at him silently for a moment, frustrated and angry, then turned back to Allanon.

“I want to see my mother before I leave.”

The Druid shook his head. “That is not a good idea, Amberle.”

Her jaw tightened. “You seem to think that you have the final say in whatever I wish to do, Druid. You don't. I want to see my mother.”

“The Demons know who you are. If they know also of your mother, they will expect you to go to her. They will be waiting for just that. It is dangerous.”

“Just being here is dangerous. Surely you can find a way for me to spend five minutes with my mother.” Her eyes dropped. “Do not be so foolish as to suggest that I should see her when I return.”

There was an unpleasant moment of silence. Allanon's dark face turned suddenly expressionless, as if he were afraid he might reveal something he wished to remain hidden. Wil did not miss the change, and it puzzled him.

“As you wish,” the Druid agreed. He rose. “Now you must sleep while you can. We must go.”

Eventine stood up with him, turning to face his granddaughter.

“I am sorry that Arion spoke so harshly at the Council,” he apologized, looking as if he had something more to say, but could not. He shook his head. “I think that in time he will come to understand as I did . . .”

He trailed off awkwardly, then put his arms around Amberle and kissed her cheeks.

“If I were not so old . . .” he began emotionally, but the girl put her fingers to his mouth to stop him. She shook her head.

“You are not so old that you do not see that you are needed here more than you are needed to go with me.” She smiled, and there were tears in her eyes as she kissed him back.

Feeling a bit self-conscious, Wil stepped away from the table and moved quietly over to the sleeping Manx. The aged wolfhound heard his approach. One eye stared up at him questioningly. On impulse, Wil reached down to pet the dog, but Manx gave a low, barely audible growl of warning. Wil drew back.

Unfriendly beast, the Valeman thought to himself.

He returned to the others. Eventine shook hands with him and wished him well. Then with Amberle beside him, Wil followed Allanon back through the floor-length windows into the night.

 

XXI

 

T
he Druid took them to a small cottage nestled on a forested slope at the northern edge of the city amid a cluster of similarly structured homes. There was nothing to set this particular cottage apart from any of the others, and this suggested to Wil the principal reason for its selection. Though unoccupied when they entered, it was fully furnished and had been lived in recently. Allanon did not offer to explain what had become of the owners. He entered the cottage as if it were his own, moved through the darkness of a living room to light several oil lamps, then carefully drew closed all the curtains that decorated the cottage windows. Having checked once through the remaining rooms while Wil and Amberle sat waiting at a small table graced with freshly cut flowers and embroidered mats, he returned momentarily with bread, cheese, fruit, and a pitcher of water. They ate in silence, Wil consuming a full meal despite the late hour, Amberle eating almost nothing. When dinner was finished, Allanon led the Elven girl to a small bedroom at the rear of the home. A single shuttered window stood latched and barred behind drawn curtains. The Druid checked the fastenings thoroughly, then nodded. Wordlessly, Amberle moved to the feather bed. She was so tired that she did not even bother to undress, but simply kicked off her boots and fell wearily across the covers. She was asleep almost immediately. Allanon paused long enough to place a light blanket over the exhausted girl, then stepped from the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

Alone in the living room, Wil Ohmsford stared through the curtained windows into the darkness beyond, where the lights of the city proper winked back at him like fireflies in the forest shadows. He glanced about restlessly as the Druid reappeared.

“We have to talk, Allanon.”

The big man did not look surprised.

“Still more questions, Wil Ohmsford?”

“Not exactly.” The Valeman looked uncomfortable.

“I see. Well then, why don't we sit down?”

Wil nodded, and they moved over to take chairs across from one another at the little table where they had eaten their meal. Once seated, the Valeman seemed uncertain as to how to proceed. Allanon regarded him expressionlessly, waiting.

“Something happened to me when I tried to use the Elfstones on that Demon in the Tirfing—something that I do not understand,” Wil began finally, avoiding the other's dark eyes. “I had almost decided against saying anything to you about it because I did not want you to think that I was looking for an excuse not to make the journey into the Wilderun.”

“That would have been foolish.” Allanon spoke quietly. “Tell me what it is that happened.”

The Valeman did not seem to hear him. “The only reason I decided to speak about it was that I grew concerned for Amberle's safety if I remained quiet. If I am to be her protector, then I cannot afford to play games with my pride.”

“Tell me what happened,” the Druid repeated.

Wil looked up uneasily. “I will explain it in the best way I can. As I said, when the Demon came at me and I tried to use the Elfstones, something inside of me resisted. It was like some sort of blockage, like a wall that had imposed itself between me and the Elfstones so that I could not call upon them for aid. I held them out before me and tried to reach down into them, to call forth their power, but nothing happened. In that instant, I was certain that you had been wrong in your belief that I could use the Stones as my grandfather had done. I thought that I was going to die. But then, just before the Demon reached me, the wall within me seemed to break apart, and the power of the Stones flared out and destroyed the creature.”

He paused. “Since then, I have thought carefully about what happened. At first I decided that I simply had not understood how to use the Elfstones, that it was my inexperience or confusion that caused the resistance. But I no longer believe that. It was something different. It was something about me.”

The Druid stared back at him wordlessly for several minutes. One hand toyed idly with the small black beard, pulling at it, twisting it. Finally the hand moved away.

“You will remember that I told you that the Elfstones were an old magic, a magic from the days before Man, a magic that belonged to the age when the faerie people ruled the earth and magic was commonplace. There were many different Elfstones then, and they served many different purposes. Their colors identified their uses. The blue Elfstones, such as those that you hold, were the seeking Stones. Possession of the blue Elfstones enabled the holder to find that which was hidden from him merely by willing that it be so—for example, the Bloodfire for which you will search. Other Elfstones exhibited other characteristics. All possessed the common characteristic of offering the holder protection against other magics and things created of magic and sorcery. But the extent of that protection—indeed, the extent of the power of the Stones—was dependent entirely on the strength of character of the holder. The Stones were grouped in sets of three; there was a reason for this. Each Stone represented a part of the holder: one Stone for the heart, one Stone for the body, one Stone for the mind. For the magic to be given life, the three would have to act in concert—three individual strengths joining as one. The success of the holder in employing the Elfstones was a measure of his ability to unite those strengths.”

He spread his hands upon the table. “The Elfstones have another characteristic, Wil—one basic to their use. The Elfstones are an Elven magic; they were created by Elven wizards for the Elves only. They have been passed from generation to generation, family to family, hand to hand—but always by Elves to Elves, for none other could ever use the Stones.”

A look of disbelief crossed the Valeman's face. “Are you trying to tell me that I cannot use the Elfstones because I am not an Elf?” he exclaimed.

Allanon shook his head. “It is not as simple as that.” He leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. “You are partially an Elf, Wil. It is so with your grandfather as well. But he is half Elf, having been born the child of an Elf and a Man. You are something quite different. Neither your mother nor your grandmother was an Elf; both were of the race of Man. All that is Elf in you is that part inherited from your father by way of your grandfather.”

“I do not see what difference any of that makes,” Wil persisted. “Why should I have difficulty using the Elfstones when my grandfather did not? There is at least some of his Elven blood in me.”

“It is not your Elven blood that would cause you difficulty,” the Druid replied quickly. “It is your Man blood. You have the physical characteristics of your grandfather—that part of you marks your Elven heritage unmistakably. But that is only a small part of the whole; the greater part of you is Man. Much of the Elf has been bred out of you.”

He paused. “Understand, when you attempt to use the Elfstones, only that small part of you that is Elf can link you to their power. The balance of your heart and mind and body resists the intrusion of the magic. It forms a block against it. The three strengths are weakened, for the strength of each is diminished to that which is solely due to your Elf blood. That may be what you have experienced in your use of the Stones—a rejection by that considerable part of you that is Man of the Elven magic.”

Wil shook his head in confusion. “But what of my grandfather? He did not experience this rejection.”

“No, he did not,” Allanon agreed. “But your grandfather was half Elf. The Elf half dominated and gave him command over the power of the Elfstones. The resistance that he experienced was barely measurable. For you, it is a different matter entirely. Your link with the power of the Elfstones is more tenuous.”

Wil stared at him. “Allanon, you knew this when you came to me in Storlock. You had to know. Yet you said nothing. Not one word. Not one.”

The Druid's expression did not change. “What was I to say, Valeman? I could not determine the extent of the difficulty that you might encounter in using the Elfstones. Any use of the Stones depends greatly on the character of the holder. I believed you strong enough to overcome any resistance within yourself. I still believe that. Telling you then of the problem would have caused you considerable doubt—doubt that might have resulted in your death in the Tirfing.”

The Valeman rose wordlessly, a stunned look on his face. He walked away from the table several paces, then turned back again.

“This could happen again, couldn't it?” he asked quietly. “Every time I try to use the Elfstones.”

The Druid nodded. Wil studied the dark face silently for a moment, the implications of this admission whirling through his mind like blown leaves.

“Every time,” he repeated. The leaves froze sharply. “Then there could come a time when the resistance within me might prove too great. There could come a time when I would call upon the power of the Elfstones and they would not respond.”

Allanon took a long time to answer. “Yes, that is possible.”

Wil sat down again, the disbelief in his face changing now to horror.

“How can you entrust Amberle's protection to me, knowing that?”

The Druid's hand came down on the table like a hammer. “Because there is no one else!” His dark face flushed with anger, but his voice remained calm. “I suggested to you once before that you should start believing in yourself. I will suggest it one time more. We are not always properly equipped to face the difficulties life places in our path. It is so now. I wish that my power was such that your aid were not necessary in this matter; I wish that I could give you something more with which to protect the Elven girl and yourself. I wish much that cannot be. I brought you to Arborlon because I knew that I alone could not hope to save the Elves from the danger that threatens them. We are both inadequate in this, Wil Ohmsford. But we must do the best we can with what we are. The Druids are gone; the Elven magics of the old world are lost. There is only you and me. There are only the Elfstones that you hold and the magic that I wield. That is all, but that must do.”

Wil held his gaze steady. “I am not afraid for me; I am afraid for Amberle. If I should fail her . . .”

“You must not fail her, Valeman.” The Druid's voice was hard, insistent. “You must not! You are all that she has.”

Wil straightened. “I may not be enough.”

“Not enough?” The words were laced with sarcasm. Allanon shook his head. “Your grandfather once believed as you did, not so many years ago. He could not understand how I thought it possible that he might possess the means of destroying a being as awesome as the Warlock Lord. After all, he was only one insignificant little Valeman.”

There was a long silence. Valeman and Druid stared wordlessly at one another in the stillness, the flicker of the oil lamp flame dancing across their faces. Then Allanon's black form rose, slowly and deliberately.

“Believe in yourself. You have already used the Elfstones once; you have experienced and overcome the resistance within you and summoned the magic. You can do so again. You will do so. You are a son of the house of Shannara; yours is a legacy of strength and courage stronger than the doubt and fear that makes you question your Elven blood.”

He leaned down. “Give me your hand.”

The Valeman obeyed. Allanon clasped it tightly in his own.

“Here is my hand and thus my bond. Here is my oath to you. You shall succeed in this quest, Wil Ohmsford. You shall find the Bloodflre and bring safely home again the last of the Chosen, she who shall restore the Ellcrys.” His voice was low and commanding. “I believe that, and so must you.”

The hard, dark eyes penetrated deep into the Valeman's own, and Wil felt himself laid bare. Yet he would not look away. When he spoke, his words were almost a whisper.

“I will try.”

The Druid nodded. He was wise enough to leave it at that.

 

Eventine Elessedil remained in the small study for a long time after the other three had departed. He sat in silence at the fringe of the circle of light cast by the solitary flame of the oil lamp, a rumpled figure formed of shadows and gathered robes. Collapsed in the familiar embrace of his favorite chair, a leather-bound furnishing worn with age and shaped with use, the King of the Elves stared unseeing at the bookcases, paintings, and woven tapestries that lined the wall across from him, thinking of what had been and what was yet to be.

Midnight came and went.

Finally the King rose. Gathering his scattered thoughts and half-drawn plans as he went, he extinguished the oil lamp and moved wearily through the study door into the hallway beyond. There was nothing more to be done this night, nothing more that he could expect to accomplish. By dawn, Amberle would be on her way toward the Wilderun. His concern must no longer be with her; it must be with his people.

Down the length of the darkened hallway the old King passed, anxious now for the rest that sleep would bring him.

All the while, the eyes of the Changeling watched him go.

 

In the deep blackness of the forest south of the city of Arborlon, the Dagda Mor rose up from the stone on which he had been seated. Cruel red eyes reflected the Demon's sense of exhilaration. This time there would be no mistake, he thought. This time he would make certain that they were all destroyed.

His humped form slouched forward. First he would see to the Elven girl.

One clawed hand beckoned, and from out of the shadows stepped the Reaper.