The Elfstones of Shannara (39 page)

Across the room, Manx raised his grizzled head. The King opened his mouth to call out to the old wolfhound. But suddenly the dog's eyes met his, and the words died in his throat. There was hate in those eyes—hate so cold that it cut through Eventine like a winter frost. He blinked in disbelief, fighting the sense of repulsion that welled up within him. Manx? What was he thinking!

He forced himself to look away, to stare elsewhere in the sleeping room, at walls and their hangings, at furniture, and at the drapes drawn tight across the windows. Desperately, he tried to compose himself and could not. I am alone, he thought suddenly, unreasonably, and was filled with fear. Alone! He glanced back again at Manx. The wolfhound's eyes fixed him, veiled now, hiding what had been so evident before. Or had he imagined it? He watched as the old dog rose, turned about, and lay down again. Why close he not come to me, the King asked himself? Why close he not come?

He slipped back against the pillows. What am I saying? The words whispered in his mind, and he saw the madness that threatened to slip across him. Seeing hatred in the eyes of an animal that had been faithful to him for years? Seeing in Manx an enemy that might do him harm? What was wrong with him?

Voices sounded in the outer corridor. Then the sleeping room door opened and closed again, and Ander crossed the room to reach down and hold him close. The King hugged his son to him, then broke the clasp, searching Ander's shadowed face as the Prince seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me what has happened,” Eventine ordered softly. Then he saw something flicker in his son's eyes, and he felt a sudden chill pass through him. He forced the question from his lips. “Where is Arion?”

Ander opened his mouth to speak, then stared at the old man wordlessly. Eventine's face froze.

“Is he dead?”

Ander's voice was a whisper. “At Worl Run.”

He seemed to search for something more to say, then gave up, shaking his head slowly. Eventine's eyes filled with tears and his hands shook as he grasped his son's arms.

“Arion is dead?” He spoke the words as if they were a lie.

Ander nodded, then looked away. “Kael Pindanon, too.” There was a moment of stunned silence. The King's hands fell away.

“And the Sarandanon?”

“Lost.”

They stared at each other wordlessly, father and son, as if some frightening secret had been shared that should never have been told. Then Ander reached down and clasped his father to him. For long moments, they held each other in silence. When at last the King spoke, his voice was flat and distant.

“Tell me about Arion. Everything. Leave nothing out.”

Ander told him. Quietly, he related how his brother had died, how they had brought him out of the Breakline to the Sarandanon, and how they had buried him at Baen Draw. Then he spoke of all that had befallen the army of the Elves from that first day of battle at Halys Cut through the long march back to Arborlon. Eventine listened and said nothing. When Ander had finished, he stared blankly at the flicker of the oil lamps for a moment. Then his eyes shifted to his son.

“I want you to return to the High Council, Ander. Do what must be done.” He paused, his voice breaking. “Go on. I will be all right.”

Ander looked at him uncertainly. “I can ask Gael to come in.”

The King shook his head. “No. Not now. I just want to . . .” He stopped, choking back what he was about to say, one hand gripping his son's arm tightly. “I am . . . very proud of you, Ander. I know how difficult . . .”

Ander nodded, his throat tightening. He placed his father's hands within his own. “Gael will be outside in the hall when you need him.”

He rose and started toward the door. His hand was on the latch when Eventine called out after him, his voice strangely anxious.

“Take Manx out with you.”

Ander stopped, looked at the old wolfhound, whistled him to his side, and led him out. The door closed softly behind him.

Alone again, this time truly alone, the King of the Elves lay back upon the cushion of his pillows and let the enormity of all that had happened wash over him. In a little more than seven days, the finest army in the Four Lands had been driven like a herd of cattle before wolves from its own country—driven from the Breakline, from the Sarandanon, and all the way back to its home city there to stand or fall. Somewhere deep within him there was a terrible sense of failure. He had let this happen. He was responsible.

“Arion,” he whispered suddenly, remembering.

Then the tears welled up in his eyes and he began to cry.

 

XXXVI

 

E
retria!” Wil exclaimed softly, surprise and wariness in his voice. Disregarding the pain from his injury he pushed himself up on one elbow for a closer look. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving you, it would appear.” She laughed, her dark eyes mischievous.

Sudden movement caught his eye, and he stared past her into the shadows. Two Rover women busied themselves at a sideboard near the rear of the wagon, rinsing cloths red with his blood in a basin of water. Instinctively, he reached up to his head and found that a bandage had been placed across the wound. He touched it gingerly and winced.

“I wouldn't do that.” Eretria brushed his hand aside. “It is the only part of you that is clean.”

The Valeman glanced about quickly. “What have you done with Amberle?”

“Your sister?” she mocked. “She is safe enough.”

“You will excuse me if I am a bit skeptical about that.” He started to rise from the bed.

“Stay, Healer.” She forced him down again. Her voice lowered so that the women behind her could not hear. “Do you fear I might seek revenge because of your ill-conceived decision to leave me behind at the Tirfing? Do you think so little of me?” She laughed and tossed her head. “Perhaps now though, if you were given the chance, you would reconsider that decision. Is that possible?”

“Not in the least. Now what about Amberle?”

“Had I intended harm to you, Wil Ohmsford—or to her—I would have left the both of you to the cutthroats who chased you through Grimpen Ward. The Elven girl is well. I will have her brought after we have talked.”

She turned to the women at the sideboard. “Go. Leave us.”

The women stopped what they were doing and disappeared through a flap at the other end of the wagon. When they had gone, Eretria turned back to the Valeman, her head cocked to one side.

“Well, what shall I do with you now, Wil Ohmsford?”

He took a deep breath. “How did you find me, Eretria?”

She grinned. “Easily enough. Word of your great healing power spread the length and breadth of Grimpen Ward within ten minutes of the time it took you to cure that fat woman innkeeper. Did you think that such a noisy performance would go unnoticed? How do you think it was that you were found by those cutthroats?”

“You knew of that, too, then?”

“Healer, you are a fool.” She said it kindly, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “Rovers are the first to know anything that happens in the places where they travel. If it were not so, they would not long survive—a lesson you apparently have yet to learn. Once word spread of your wondrous act of healing, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that there would be some who would soon decide that one with your talent must surely be a man of wealth. Greed and drink mix well, Healer. You are lucky to be alive.”

“I suppose so,” he acknowledged, chagrined. “I should have been a bit more careful.”

“A bit. Fortunately for you, I realized who you were and prevailed upon Cephelo to let me find you, once the cry went up from the inn. Otherwise, you might be food for the dogs.”

“A pleasant thought.” Wil grimaced. He glanced at her quickly. “Cephelo knows that I am here?”

“He knows.” She smiled and the mischievousness returned to her eyes. “Does that frighten you?”

“Let's just say that it concerns me,” Wil admitted. “Why should he do anything for me after what happened back in the Tirfing?”

Eretria leaned close and put her slim, dark arms about his neck. “Because his daughter is persuasive, Healer—persuasive enough that at times she may influence even so difficult a man as Cephelo.” She shrugged. “Besides, he has had time to rethink what happened at the Tirfing. I have convinced him, I think, that it was none of your doing—that in fact you saved the lives of the Family.”

Wil shook his head doubtfully. “I don't trust him.”

“Nor should you,” she agreed. “But for tonight, at least, he should cause you no concern. He will wait until morning to have you answer to him. By then, at any rate, your pursuers will have worn themselves out chasing shadows and have gone back again to the taverns for fresh ale and a more tangible source of gain.”

She rose then, slipped away in a flash of blue silk, and returned a moment later with a damp cloth and a fresh basin of water which she placed on the floor next to the bed.

“We must clean you up, Healer. You reek of sweat and dirt, and your clothes are ruined.” She paused. “Take them off and I'll wash you.”

Wil shook his head. “I will wash myself. Can you lend me some clothes?”

She nodded, but made no move to go. The Valeman flushed.

“I would like to do this by myself, if you don't mind.”

The dazzling smile broke across her face. “Oh, but I do mind.”

He shook his head. “You really are incorrigible.”

“You are for me, Wil Ohmsford. I told you that before.”

The smile faded, replaced by a look so sensuous and compelling as to cause Wil to forget momentarily what it was that he was about. When she started to lean toward him, he forced himself to sit up quickly on the bed. Dizziness washed over him, but he kept himself upright.

“Will you bring me the clothes?”

For an instant her eyes went dark with anger. Then she rose, crossed to a cupboard, removed some clothing, and brought it to him.

“You may have these.” She tossed them in his lap.

She started past him, then dipped suddenly and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Wash and dress yourself then.” She sniffed, slipping away.

She opened a door at the end of the wagon and disappeared into the night, closing the door behind her securely and latching it from without. Wil grinned in spite of himself. Whatever her intentions, she was not about to let him run off. Quickly he stripped away his old clothing, washed, and put on the clothes Eretria had supplied. They fit well, though they were the clothes of a Rover and he felt more than a little strange wearing them.

He had just finished dressing when the door opened again and Eretria appeared with Amberle. The Elven girl was dressed in Rover pants and tunic, with a sash and headband to hold back her waist-length hair. Her face was freshly scrubbed and a bit startled. She glanced at Wil's head and there was immediate concern in her green eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked quickly.

“I have seen to his needs.” Eretria brushed her question aside smoothly. She pointed to the bed opposite Wil's. “You can sleep there. Be certain that you do not try to leave the wagon tonight.”

She gave Wil a knowing smile, then turned away and moved to the door. She was halfway through when she glanced back suddenly.

“Good-night, brother Wil. Good-night, sister Amberle. Sleep well.”

With a grin, she slipped through the door. The latch fastened behind her with a click.

 

The Valeman and the Elven girl slept that night within the Rover wagon. It was dawn when they awoke, the new light seeping through cracks in the shuttered windows to light the dusky gloom. Wil lay silent for a time, gathering his thoughts, waiting for the sleep to clead from his eyes. After a moment, he reached within his tunic for the small leather pouch containing the Elfstones, checked to be certain that they were still there, then replaced the pouch. It did not hurt to be careful, he thought. He was halfway out of the bed when Amberle ordered him back in again, scrambling up from the other bed to reach him. Carefully she examined the injury to his head and readjusted the bandage. When she had finished, Wil pushed himself up beside her and surprised her with a quick kiss on one cheek. She flushed slightly and smiled, her child's face beaming.

A short time later the door latch released and Eretria stepped through, carrying a tray of bread, honey, milk, and fruit. Brown limbs slipped from beneath a diaphanous white gown that swirled about the Rover girl like smoke. The dazzling smile flashed at the Valeman.

“Well rested, Wil Ohmsford?” She deposited the tray on his lap and winked. “Cephelo will speak with you now.”

She left without saying a word to Amberle. Wil glanced at the Elven girl when Eretria had gone and shrugged helplessly. Amberle's smile was forced.

Minutes later, Cephelo appeared. He entered without knocking, his tall, lean frame stooping slightly as it passed through the entry. Dressed in black and wrapped in the cloak of forest green, he appeared just as he had when they had first observed him on the banks of the Mermidon. The wide-brimmed hat was cocked jauntily on his head, and he removed it with a flourish as he entered, a broad grin splitting his swarthy face.

“Ah, the Elflings, the Healer and his sister. We meet again.” He bowed. “Still looking for your horse?”

Wil smiled. “Not this time.”

The Rover looked down the length of his hooked nose at them. “No? Have you lost your way then? Arborlon, as I remember, lies north.”

“We have been to Arborlon and left again,” the Valeman replied, setting aside the tray.

“Come to Grimpen Ward.”

“Both of us, it seems.”

“Indeed.” The tall man seated himself opposite the two. “In my case, business takes me many places that I might not otherwise care to go. But what of yourself, Healer? What brings you to Grimpen Ward? Surely not the prospect of applying your art to the denizens of so shabby a village as this one.”

Wil hesitated a moment before responding. He was going to have to be very careful what he told Cephelo. He knew the man well enough by now to appreciate the fact that if the Rover were to discover anything that he might turn to his own advantage, he would be quick to do so.

“We have business of our own,” he replied carelessly.

The Rover pursed his lips. “You do not seem to be doing very well in its pursuit, Healer. Your throat would be cut by now if not for me.”

Wil wanted to laugh aloud. The old fox! He was not about to admit that Eretria had anything to do with saving them.

“We seem to be in your debt once again,” he offered.

Cephelo shrugged. “I was hasty in my judgment of you at the Tirfing; I let my concern for my people override my common sense. I blamed you for what happened when I should have thanked you for aiding. That has bothered me. Saving you now eases my sense of guilt.”

“I am gratified to learn that you feel this way.” Wil did not believe one word of it. “This has been a difficult time for my sister and me.”

“Difficult?” Cephelo's dark face mirrored sudden concern. “Perhaps there is something more that I can do to aid you—something to be of service. If you would tell me what it is, exactly, that brings you to this most dangerous part of the country . . . ?”

Here it comes, Wil thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Amberle frown in warning.

“I wish that it were within your power to help.” Wil did his best to sound sincere. “But I am afraid that it is not. What I need most is the guidance of someone familiar with the history of this valley, its marks, and its legends.”

Cephelo clapped his hands lightly. “Well, then, perhaps I can be of assistance after all. I have traveled the Wilderun many times.” He lifted a long finger to the side of his head. “I know something of its secrets.”

Perhaps, Wil thought. Perhaps not. He wants to know what we are doing here.

The Valeman shrugged. “I do not feel that we should impose further on your hospitality by involving you in our affairs. My sister and I can manage.”

The Rover's face was expressionless. “Why not tell me what it is that brings you here—let me judge if the imposition is so great.”

Amberle's hand closed tightly on Wil's arm, but he ignored it, keeping his eyes locked on Cephelo's. He knew that he was going to have to tell the Rover something.

“There is a sickness within the house of the Elessedils, rulers of the Elves.” He lowered his voice. “The King's granddaughter is very ill. The medicine she needs is an extract from a root that can only be found here, within the Wilderun. I alone know that—I and my sister. We have come here in search of that root, for if we can find it and carry it to the Elven ruler, the reward will be great.”

He felt Amberle's grip loosen abruptly. He did not dare to look at her face. Cephelo was silent for a moment before replying.

“Do you know where within the Wilderun this root can be found?”

The Valeman nodded. “There are books, ancient books of healing from the old world, that speak of the root and the name of its location. But it is a name long since forgotten, long since erased from the maps that serve the races now. I doubt that the name would mean anything to you.”

The Rover leaned forward. “Tell it to me anyway.”

“Safehold,” Wil declared, watching the other's dark face. “The name is Safehold.”

Cephelo thought a moment, then shook his head. “You were right—the name means nothing. Still . . .” He paused deliberately, rocking back slightly as if deep in thought. “There is one who might know the name, one familiar with the old names of this valley. I could lead you to him, I suppose. Ah, but Healer, the Wilderun is very dangerous country—you know that yourself since you most certainly crossed through some small part of its forests to reach Grimpen Ward. The risk to my people and myself if we were to aid you in such a perilous search would be great.” He shrugged apologetically. “Besides, we have other commitments, other places to which we must travel, other business to which we must attend. Time is a precious thing to such as we. Surely you can appreciate that.”

“What is it that you are saying?” The Valeman demanded quietly.

“That without me, you will fail in your quest. That you need me; that I in turn wish to offer my help. But such help as you seek cannot be given without, ah . . . adequate recompense.”

Wil nodded slowly. “What recompense, Cephelo?”