The Elfstones of Shannara (41 page)

There was a long moment of silence as the Rover and the old man stared at each other and the others waited.

“Well?” Cephelo demanded finally.

“Well what?” the old man snapped.

“Safehold! Where is it?”

Hebel grinned crookedly. “Right where it's always been, I imagine.” He saw the surprise in the other's face. “I know the name, Rover. An old name, forgotten by everyone but me, I'd guess. Tombs of some sort—catacombs beneath a mountain.”

“That's it!” The young man came to his feet, his face flushed. Then he saw that everyone was staring at him and he sat down again quickly. “At least that is the way that the books described it,” he added lamely.

“Did they now?” Hebel rocked back, puffing. “Did they speak as well of the Hollows?”

The young man shook his head and glanced at the Elf girl, who shook her head as well. It was Cephelo who leaned forward sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“You mean that Safehold lies within the Hollows, old man?”

There was an edge to Cephelo's voice that did not escape Hebel. Cephelo was frightened.

Hebel chuckled. “Within the Hollows. Do you still seek Safehold, Rover?”

The young man hunched forward. “Where can the Hollows be found?”

“South, a day's walk,” the old man answered. It was time to put an end to this foolishness. “Deep and dark they are, Elfling—a pit in which anything that drops falls from sight and is lost forever. Death, Elfling. Nothing that goes into the Hollows comes out again. Those who live there choose to keep it so.”

The young man shook his head. “I do not understand.”

Eretria muttered something under her breath, her eyes darting quickly to the face of the young Elf. She knew, Hebel saw. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“The Witch Sisters, Elfling. Morag and Mallenroh. The Hollows belong to them and to the things they make to serve them—things of Witch power.”

“But where within the Hollows lies Safehold?” the other persisted. “You spoke of a mountain...?”

“Spire's Reach—a solitary peak that rises up out of the Hollows like an arm stretched forth from death's grave. There lies Safehold.” The old man paused, shrugging. “Or so it was once. I have not been to the Hollows myself in many, many years.” He shook his head. “No one goes there anymore.”

The young man nodded slowly. “Tell me something of these Witch Sisters.”

Hebel's eyes narrowed. “Morag and Mallenroh—the last of their kind. Once, Elfling, there were many such as they—now there are but two. Some say they were the handmaidens of the Warlock Lord. Some say they were here long before even he. Power to match that of the Druids, some say.” He spread his hands. “The truth is hidden with them—seek it if you wish. The loss of another Elf, more or less, means nothing to me.”

He laughed sharply, choking a bit until he lifted his cup and drank down a swallow or two of ale. His thin frame bent forward as he sought the young man's eyes.

“Sisters, they are, Morag and Mallenroh. Blood sisters. But there is a great hate between them, a hate from some wrong suffered long ago—real or imagined I could not say, nor anyone else I'd guess. But they war within the Hollows, Elfling—Morag holds the east, Mallenroh the west, each trying to destroy the other, each trying to seize for herself her sister's land and power. And at the center of the Hollows, just between the two, stands Spire's Reach—and there, Safehold.”

“Have you seen Safehold?”

“I? Not I. The Hollows belong to the Sisters; the valley is room enough for me.” Hebel rocked back, remembering. “Once, so many years ago that I no longer care to count, I hunted along the rim of the Hollows. Foolish it was, but I was still of a mind to know the whole of the land that I had chosen for my home, and the stories were but stories. For days I hunted within the shadow of the Hollows, seeing nothing. Then one night as I slept, alone but for the dimming embers of my campfire, she came to me—Mallenroh, tall and like some creature from a dream, gray hair long and woven with nightshade, her face the face of Mistress Death. She came to me, told me she felt the need to speak to one of human blood, one such as I. All the rest of the night she talked and told me of herself and her sister Morag and of the war they fought to own the Hollows.”

He was lost in the memory now, his voice distant and soft. “In the morning she was gone, almost as if she had never been. I never saw her again, of course, not from that moment to this. I might have thought it all imagined, not real at all, except that she took some part of me with her—some bit of life I'd suppose you'd say.”

He shook his head slowly. “Most of what she told me scattered like the fragments of some dream. But I remember her words of Safehold, Elfling. Catacombs beneath the arm of Spire's Reach, she said. A place from another age where some strange magic had once been done. So old it was that even the Sisters did not know its meaning. She told me that, did Mallenroh. I remember . . . that much, at least.”

He was silent then, thinking back on what had been. Even after all these years, the memory of her was as clear as the faces of those who sat about him. Mallenroh! Strange, he thought, that he should remember her so well.

The young man was speaking quietly, his hand touching the edge of the rocker.

“You remember enough, Hebel.”

The old man looked at the Elf in surprise, not understanding. Then he saw in the other's eyes what he intended. He meant to go there, Hebel realized. He meant to go into the Hollows. Impulsively he leaned down.

“Do not go,” he whispered, his head shaking slowly. “Do not go.”

The young man smiled faintly. “I must, if Cephelo is to have his reward.”

The Rover said nothing, his dark face inscrutable. Eretria glanced sharply at him, then turned back to the young man.

“Healer, do not do this,” she begged. “Listen to what the old man has said. The Hollows are no place for you. Seek your medicine elsewhere.”

The Elf shook his head. “There is nowhere else. Let it alone, Eretria.”

For an instant, the Rover girl's entire body seemed to go taut, her dark face flushing with emotions that struggled to break free. Yet she held them carefully in check, rising to her feet and staring down at him coldly.

“You are a fool,” she announced, and stalked away into the dark.

Hebel watched the young man, saw his eyes follow after Eretria as she went from them. The Elven girl did not look, her strange green eyes introspective and all but lost in the shadow of her long hair as it fell forward about her child's face.

“Is this root so important?” the old man asked wonderingly, not just to the young man, but to the girl as well. “Can it not be found another place?”

“Let them be.” Cephelo spoke up suddenly, his dark eyes slipping from face to face. “The decision is theirs to make and they have made it.”

Hebel frowned. “So quick to send them to their deaths, Rover? What then of this reward of which the Elfling speaks?”

Cephelo laughed. “Rewards are given and taken away by the whims of fortune, old man. Where one is lost, another is gained. The Elfling must do what he chooses, he and his sister. We have no right to pass judgment.”

“We have to go.” The Elven girl spoke softly, for the first time since they had been seated, looking deep into the old man's eyes.

“Well, then.” Cephelo rose. “Enough said of the matter. The evening is not yet done and there is good Rover ale to be drunk. Share it with me, friends. We shall talk of the times that have been, rather than guess at what might yet be. Hebel, you shall hear what those fools that people Grimpen Ward have done of late—madness the like of which only men such as you and I can truly appreciate.”

He called sharply to the old woman, who scurried to his side with a flask of ale. Several more of the Rovers drifted over to join them, and Cephelo poured freely from the flask into the cups of all. Laughing and joking, he began a series of wild-eyed stories of places he had probably never been and people he had certainly never met. Bold and easy was the Rover, his talk filling the night with the laughter of his people and the clink of their glasses raised in salute. Hebel listened with distrust. Cephelo had been too quick to disparage his warning to the Elflings and to disdain interest in the supposed reward that would come, it seemed, only if the young Elf found the medicine he sought and returned again. Too quick by far, he thought—for the Rover knew as well as he that no one had ever returned from the Hollows.

He rocked slowly in his cane-backed chair, one hand dropping idly to find Drifter's shaggy head. What more warning could he give this Elf, he wondered? What could he say that he had not already said to discourage his foolishness? Perhaps nothing; the lad seemed determined that he must go.

He wondered then if the Elfling would meet Mallenroh as he had done so many years ago; thinking that he might, he envied him.

 

It was a short time later when Wil Ohmsford rose from the company of revelers and walked to the well that sat just back of the old man's hut. Amberle already slept, wrapped in blankets close to the fire, exhausted, it seemed, from the day's journey and the events leading up to it. He also was experiencing an unusual drowsiness, though he had drunk little of the Rover ale. The cold water might help, he thought, and a good night's sleep after. He had just taken a long drink from a metal cup hooked to the well-bucket's chain when Eretria stepped from the shadows to stand before him.

“I do not understand you, Healer,” she said bluntly. He replaced the cup within the bucket and seated himself on the stone wall of the well. This was Eretria's first appearance since she had called him a fool in front of the others.

“I went to a considerable amount of trouble to save your life back in Grimpen Ward,” she continued. “It was not easy persuading Cephelo that he should allow me to help you—not easy at all. Now it seems that my efforts were wasted. I might as well have let those cutthroats have you, you and this Elven girl you pretend is your sister. Despite the warnings you have been given, you insist on going into the Hollows. I want to know why. Has Cephelo anything to do with this? I don't know what bargain you struck with him, but nothing he promised—even if he were of a mind to deliver, which I doubt he is—would be worth the risk that you take.”

“Cephelo has nothing to do with it,” Wil replied quietly.

“If he has threatened you in any way, I would stand with you against him,” the girl declared firmly. “I would help you.”

“I know that. But Cephelo has no part in the decision.”

“Then why? Why must you do this?”

The Valeman looked down. “The medicine that is needed for . . .”

“Don't lie to me!” Eretria dropped next to him on the well wall, her dark face angry. “Cephelo may believe that nonsense about roots and medicines, but he reads only the truth of your words, Healer, and not the truth of your eyes. You may disguise the first, but never the second. This girl is not your sister; she is your charge, a responsibility that you clearly hold dear. It is not roots and medicines you seek, but something more. What is it then that lies within the Hollows?”

Wil looked up slowly to meet her gaze and hold it. For a long moment he stared at her without replying. She reached out impulsively, her hands grasping his.

“I would never betray you. Never.”

He smiled faintly. “Perhaps that is the one thing about which I am certain, Eretria. I will tell you this. There is a danger that threatens this land—that threatens all the Lands. The thing that will protect against it can be found only in Safehold. Amberle and I have been sent to find it.”

The Rover girl's eyes were filled with fire. “Then let me go with you. Take me with you now as you should have taken me before.”

Wil sighed. “How can I do that? You have just finished telling me that I am a fool for insisting on going into the Hollows. Now you would have me treat you as a fool as well. No. Your place is with your people—at least for now. Better that you continue east, far from the Westland and what may come.”

“Healer, I am to be sold by that devil who masquerades to my father the moment we reach the larger Southland cities!” Her voice was hard, brittle. “Am I to see myself as better off with that fate than any that you might encounter? Take me with you!”

“Eretria . . .”

“Hear me out! I know something of this country for the Rovers have traveled it since the time of my birth. I may know something that could help you. If not, at least I will be no hindrance to you. I can take care of myself—better than your Elven girl. I ask nothing of you, Healer, that you would not ask of me were our positions reversed. You must let me come!”

“Eretria, even if I were to agree to this, Cephelo would never let you go.”

“Cephelo would not know until it was too late to do anything about it.” Her voice was quick and excited. “Take me with you, Healer. Say yes to me.”

He almost did. She was so wonderfully beautiful that it would have been hard to refuse her anything under normal circumstances. But now, seated next to him, her eyes bright with anticipation, there was a desperation in her words that moved him. She was frightened of Cephelo and what he would do with her. She would not beg, the Valeman knew, but she would come as close to that as possible if it would persuade him to help her get free.

But the Hollows were death, the old man had said. No one went into the Hollows. It would be difficult enough looking after Amberle; and despite what Eretria had said about taking care of herself, Wil knew that, if she were permitted to come with them, he would worry for her just as he worried for the Elven girl.

He shook his head slowly. “I can't, Eretria. I can't.”

There was a long moment of silence as she stared at him, disbelief and anger shading her eyes, the excitement and expectation fading. Slowly she rose.