Terry Brooks - Shannara 02 - The Elfstones of Shannara

Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

I

The night sky brightened faintly in the east with the approach of dawn as the Chosen entered the

Gardens of Life. Without, the Elven city of Arborlon lay sleeping, its people still wrapped in the warmth

and solitude of their beds. But for the Chosen the day had already begun. Their trailing white robes

billowing slightly with a rush of summer Wind, they passed between the sentries of the Black Watch, who

stood rigid and aloof as such sentries had stood for centuries gone before the arched, wrought-iron

gateway inlaid with silver scroll and ivory chips. They passed quickly, and only their soft voices and the

crunch their sandaled feet on the gravel pathway disturbed the silence of the new day as they slipped into

the pine-shadowed dark beyond.

The Chosen were the caretakers of the Ellcrys, the strange and wondrous tree that stood at the center

of the Gardens-the tree, as the legends told, that served as protector against a primordial evil that had

very nearly destroyed the Elves centuries ago, an evil that had been shut away from the earth since before

the dawn of the old race of Men. In all the time that had followed, there had been Chosen to care for the

Ellcrys. Theirs was a tradition handed down through generations of Elves, a tradition of service that the

Elves regarded as both a coveted honor and a solemn duty.

Yet there was little evidence of solemnity in the procession that passed through the Gardens this

morning. Two hundred and thirty days of the year of their service had gone by, and youthful spirits could

no longer be easily subdued. The first sense of awe at the responsibility given them had long since

passed, and the Chosen of the Elves were now just six young men on their way to perform a task they

had performed each day since the time of their choosing, a task grown old and familiar-the greeting of the

tree at the first touch of sunrise.

Only Lauren, youngest of this year's Chosen, was silent. He lagged a bit behind the others as they

walked, taking no part in their idle chatter. His red head was bent in concentration, and there was a deep

frown on his face. So wrapped up in his thoughts was he that he was not aware when the noise ahead

ceased, nor of the steps that fell back beside him, until a hand touched his arm. Then his troubled face

jerked up abruptly to find Jase regarding him.

"What's the matter, Lauren? Are you sick?" Jase asked. Because he was a few months older than the

rest, Jase was the accepted leader of the Chosen.

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Lauren shook his head, but the frown did not leave his face entirely "I'm all right."

"Something is bothering you. You've been brooding all morning. Come to think of it, you were rather

quiet last night, too." Jase's hand on his shoulder brought the younger Elf about to face him. "Come on,

out with it. Nobody expects you to serve if you're not feeling well."

Lauren hesitated, then sighed and nodded. "All right. It's the Ellcrys. Yesterday, at sunset, just before

we left her, I thought I saw some spotting on her leaves. It looked like wilt."

"Wilt? Are you sure? Nothing like that ever happens to the Ellcrys-at least that's what we've always

been told," Jase said doubtfully.

"I could have been mistaken," Lauren admitted. "It was getting dark. I told myself then that it was

probably just the way the shadows lay on the leaves. But the more I try to remember how it looked, the

more I think it really was wilt."

"There was a disconcerted muttering from the others, and one of them spoke. "This is Amberle's fault. I

said before that something bad would come from having a girl picked as a Chosen."

"There were other girls among the Chosen, and nothing happened because of it," Lauren protested. He

had always liked Amberle. She had been easy to talk to, even if she was King Eventine Elessedil's

granddaughter.

"Not for five hundred years, Lauren," the other said.

"All right, that's enough," Jase interrupted. "We agreed not to talk about Amberle. You know that." He

stood silently for a moment, pondering what Lauren had said. Then he shrugged. "It would be unfortunate

if anything happened to the tree, especially while she was under our care. But after all, nothing lasts

forever."

Lauren was shocked. "But Jase, when the tree weakens, the Forbidding will end and the Demons

within will be freed..."

"Do you really believe those old stories, Lauren?" Jase laughed.

Lauren stared at the older Elf. "How can you be a Chosen and not believe?"

"I don't remember being asked what I believed when I was chosen, Lauren. Were you asked?"

Lauren shook his head. Candidates for the honor of being Chosen were never asked anything. They

were simply brought before the tree-young Eves who had crossed over into manhood and womanhood

in the prior year. At the dawn of the new year, they gathered to pass beneath her limbs, each pausing

momentarily for acceptance. Those the tree touched upon the shoulders became the new Chosen, to

serve until the year was done. Lauren could still remember the mix of ecstasy and pride he had felt at the

moment a slender branch had bent to touch him and he'd heard her speak his name.

And he remembered, too, the astonishment of all when Amberle had been called...

"It's just a tale to frighten children," Jase was saying "The real function of the Ellcrys is to serve as a

reminder to the Elven people that they, like her, survive despite all the changes that have taken place in

the history of the Four Lands. She is a symbol of our people's strength, Lauren-nothing more."

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He motioned for them all to resume their walk into the Gardens and turned away. Lauren lapsed back

into thought. The older Elf's casual disregard for the legend of the tree disturbed him. Of course Jase was

from the city, and Lauren had observed that the people of Arborlon seemed to take the old beliefs less

seriously than did those of the little northern village from which he came. But the story of the Ellcrys and

the Forbidding wasn't just a story-it was the foundation of everything that was truly Elven, the most

important event in the history of his people.

It had all taken place long ago, before the birth of the new world. There had been a great war between

good and evil-a war that the Elves had finally won by creating the Ellcrys and a Forbidding that had

banished the evil Demons into a timeless dark. And so long as the Ellcrys was kept well, so long would

the evil be locked from the land.

So long as the Ellcrys was kept well...

He shook his head doubtfully. Maybe the wilt was but a trick of his imagination. Or a trick of the light.

And if not, they would simply have to find a cure. There was always a cure.

Moments later, he stood with the others before the tree. Hesitantly, he looked up, then sighed in relief.

It appeared as if the Ellcrys was unchanged. Perfectly formed, her silver-white trunk arched skyward in a

symmetrically balanced network of tapered limbs clustered with broad, five-cornered leaves that were

blood-red in color. At her base, strips of green moss grew in patchwork runners through the cracks and

crevices of the smooth-skinned bark, like emerald streams flowing down a mountain hillside. There were

no splits to mar the trunk's even lines, no branches cracked or broken. So beautiful, he thought. He

looked again, but could see no signs of the sickness he had feared.

The others went to gather the tools they would use in the feeding and grooming of the tree and in the

general upkeep of the Gardens. But Jase held Lauren back. "Would you like to greet her today, Lauren?"

he asked.

Lauren stammered his surprised thanks. Jase was giving up his turn for the most special of tasks,

obviously in an effort to cheer him.

He stepped forward under the spreading branches to lay his hands upon the smooth-skinned trunk, the

others gathering about a few paces back to recite the morning greeting. He glanced upward expectantly,

searching for the first beam of sunlight that would fall upon her form.

Then abruptly he drew back. The leaves directly above him were dark with patches of wilt. His heart

fell. There was spotting elsewhere as well, scattered throughout the tree. It was not a trick of light and

shadow. It was real.

He motioned frantically for Jase, then pointed as the other came forward. As was their custom at this

time, they did not speak, but Jase gasped as he saw the extent of the damage already done. Slowly the

two walked around the tree, discovering spots everywhere, some, barely visible, others already

darkening the leaves so badly that their blood-red color seemed drained away.

Whatever his professed beliefs concerning the tree, Jase was badly shaken, and his face reflected his

dismay as he went back to confer in whispers with the others. Lauren moved to join them, but. Jase

quickly shook his head, motioning to the top of the tree, where the dawn's light had almost reached the

uppermost branches.

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Lauren knew his duty and he turned back again to the tree. Whatever else was to happen, the Chosen

must greet the Ellcrys this day as they had greeted her each day since the beginning of their Order.

He placed his hands gently on the silver bark and the words of greeting were forming on his lips when a

slender branch from the ancient tree dipped slightly to brush his shoulder.

-Lauren-

The young Elf jumped at the sound of his name. But no one had spoken. The sound had been in his

mind, the voice little more than an image of his own face.

It was the Ellcrys!

He caught his breath, twisting his head to glimpse briefly the branch that rested on his shoulder before

turning quickly back again. Confusion swept through him. Only once before had she spoken to him-on

the day of his choosing. She had spoken his name then; she had spoken all their names. It had been the

last time. She had never spoken to any of them after that. Never-except to Amberle, of course, and

Amberle was no longer one of them.

He looked hurriedly at the others. They were staring at him, curious as to why he had stopped. Then

the branch that rested upon his shoulder slipped down to wrap about him loosely, and he flinched

involuntarily with its touch.

-Lauren. Call the Chosen to me-

The images appeared quickly and were gone. Hesitantly; Lauren beckoned to his comrades. They

came forward, questions forming on their lips as they stared upward at the silver-limbed tree. Branches

lowered to clasp each, and the voice of the Ellcrys whispered softly.

-Hear me. Remember what I tell you. Do not fail me-

A chill swept over them, and the Gardens of Life were shrouded in deep, hollow silence, as if in all the

world only they were alive. Images filled their minds, flowing one after the other in rapid succession.

There was horror contained in those images. Had they been able, the Chosen would have turned away,

to flee and hide until the nightmare that possessed them had passed and been forgotten. But the tree held

them fast, and the images continued to flow and the horror to mount, until they felt they could stand no

more.

Then at last it was finished, and the Ellcrys was silent once more, her limbs lifting from their shoulders

and stretching wide to catch the warmth of the morning sun.

Lauren stood frozen, tears streaming down his cheeks. Shattered, the six Chosen faced one another,

and in each mind the truth whispered soundlessly.

The legend was not legend. The legend was life. Evil did indeed lie beyond a Forbidding that the Ellcrys

maintained. Only she kept the Elven people safe.

And now she was dying.

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II

Far to the west of Arborlon, beyond the Breakline, there was a stirring in the air. Something blacker than

the darkness of the early dawn appeared, writhing and shuddering with the force of some blow that

appeared to strike it. Momentarily, the veil of blackness held firm. Then it split wide, rent by the force

from within it. Howls and shrieks of glee spilled forth from the impenetrable blackness beyond, as dozens

of clawed limbs ripped and tore at the sudden breach, straining toward the light. Then red fire exploded

all about and the hands fell away, twisted and burned.

The Dagda Mor appeared out of the dark, hissing with rage. His Staff of Power steamed hotly as he

brushed aside the impatient ones and stepped boldly through the opening. An instant later, the dark forms

of the Reaper and the Changeling followed him. Other bodies pushed forward in desperation, but the

edges of the rent came together quickly, closing off the blackness and the things that lived within it. In

moments, the opening had disappeared entirely and the strange trio stood alone.

The Dagda Mor looked about warily. They stood in the shadow of the Breakline, the dawn which had

already shattered the peace of the Chosen little more than a faint light in the eastern sky beyond the

monstrous wall of mountains. The great, towering peaks knifed into the sky, casting pillars of darkness far

out into the desolation of the Hoare Fats. The Flats themselves stretched westward from the line of the

mountains into emptiness-a hard, barren wasteland in which life spans were measured in minutes and

hours. Nothing moved on its surface. No sound broke the stillness of the morning air.

The Dagda Mor smiled, his hooked teeth gleaming. His coming had gone unnoticed. After all these

years, he was free. He was loose once more among those who had imprisoned him.

At a distance, he might have passed for one of them. He was basically manlike in appearance. He

walked upright on two legs, and his arms were only slightly longer than those of a man. He carried himself

stooped over, his movements hampered by a peculiar hunching motion-but the dark robes that cloaked

him made it difficult to tell the cause. It was only when close that one could see clearly the massive hump

that crooked his spine almost double at the shoulders. Or the great tufts of greenish hair that protruded

from all parts of his body like patches of saw grass. Or the scales that coated his forearms and lower

legs. Or the hands and feet that ended in claws. Or the vaguely catlike muzzle that was his face. Or the

eyes, black and shining, deceptively placid on their surface, like twin pools of water that hid something

evil and destructive.

Once these were seen, there was no longer any question as to the Dagda Mor's identity. What was

revealed then was not man, but Demon.

And the Demon hated. He hated with an intensity that bordered on madness. Hundreds of years of

imprisonment within the black hold that lay beyond the wall of the Forbidding had given his hatred more

than sufficient time to fester and grow. Now it consumed him. It was everything to him. It gave him his

power, and he would use that power to crush the creatures who had caused him so much misery. The

Elves! All of the Elves. And even that would not be enough to satisfy him now-not now, not after

centuries of being shut from this world that had once been his hut into that formless, insentient limbo of

endless dark and slow, wretched stagnation. No, the destruction of the Elves would not be enough to

salve the indignity that he had suffered. The others must be destroyed as well. Men, Dwarves, Trolls,

Gnomes, all those who were a part of the humanity that he so detested, the races of humanity that lived

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upon his world and claimed it for their own.

His vengeance would come, he thought...just as his freedom had come. He could feel it. He had waited

centuries, posted at the wall of the Forbidding, testing its strength, probing for weakness-all the time

knowing that it must, one day, begin to fail. And now that day was here. The Ellcrys was dying. Ah,

sweet words! He wanted to shout them aloud! She was dying! She was dying and she could no longer

maintain the Forbidding!

The Staff of Power glowed redly in his hands as the hatred flowed through him. The earth beneath its

tip charred to ash. With an effort he calmed himself and the Staff grew cool again.

For a time, of course, the Forbidding would still hold firm. Complete erosion would not take place

overnight nor, quite possibly, for several weeks. Even the small breach at he had managed had required

enormous power. But the Dagda Mor possessed enormous power, more power than any of those still

trapped behind the Forbidding. He was chief among them; his word ruled them. A few had defied that

word during the long years of banishment only a few. He had broken them. He had made unpleasant

examples of them. Now all obeyed him. They feared him. But they shared his hatred of what had been

done to them. They, too, fed on that hatred. It had driven them into a frenzied need for revenge, and

when at last they were set free again, that need would take a long, long time to be satisfied.

But for now, they must wait. For now, they must be patient. It would not be long. The Forbidding

would weaken a little more each day, decaying as the Ellcrys slowly failed. Only one thing could prevent

this-a rebirth.

The Dagda Mor nodded to himself. He knew well the history of the Ellcrys. Had he not been present

when she had first seen life, when she had shut his brethren and himself from their world of light into their

prison of dark? Had he not seen the nature of the sorcery that had defeated them-a sorcery so powerful

that it could transcend even death? And he knew that this freedom could still be taken from him. If one of

the Chosen were permitted to carry a seed of the tree to the source of her power, the Ellcrys might be

reborn and the Forbidding invoked again. He knew this, and it was because of this knowledge that he

was here now. He had by no means been certain that he could breach the wall of the Forbidding. It had

been a dangerous gamble to expend so much power in the attempt, for, had he failed, he might have been

left badly weakened. There were some behind the wall almost as powerful as he; they would have seized

the opportunity to destroy him. But the gamble had been necessary. The Eves did not realize the extent of

their danger yet. For the moment, they believed themselves safe. They did not think that any within the

confines of the Forbidding possessed sufficient power to break through. They would discover their error

too late. By then, he would have made certain that the Ellcrys could never be reborn nor the Forbidding

restored.

If was for that reason that he had brought the other two.

He glanced about for them now. He found the Changeling immediately, his body undergoing a steady

transition of colors and shapes as he practiced duplicating the life he found here-in the sky, a searching

hawk and a small raven; on the earth, a groundhog, then a snake, a multilegged insect with pincers, then

on to something new, almost as quickly as the eye could follow. For the Changeling could be anything.

Shut away in the darkness with only his brethren to model after, he had been denied the full use of his

powers. There, they had been virtually wasted. But here, in this world, the possibilities were endless. All

things, whether human or animal, fish or fowl, no matter their size, shape, color or abilities-he could be

any of them. He could assimilate their characteristics perfectly. Even the Dagda Mor was not certain of

the Changeling's true appearance; the creature was so prone to adapt to other life forms that he spent

virtually all of his rime being something or someone other than what he really was.

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It was an extraordinary gift, but it was possessed by a creature whose capacity for evil was very nearly

as great as that of the Dagda Mor. The Changeling, too, was of Demon spawn. He was selfish and

hateful. He enjoyed duplicity; he enjoyed hurting others. He had always been the enemy of the Elven

people and their allies, detesting them for their pious concern for the welfare of the lesser life forms that

inhabited their world. Lesser creatures meant nothing to the Changeling. They were weak, vulnerable;

they were meant to be used by more powerful beings-beings such as himself. The Elves were no better

than the creatures they sought to protect. They either could not or would not deceive as he did. All of

them were trapped by what they were; they could be nothing else. He could be whatever he wished. He

despised them all. The Changeling had no friends. He wanted none. None but the Dagda Mor, that was,

for the Dagda Mor possessed the one thing he respected-power greater than his own. It was for that

reason and for that reason alone that the Changeling had come to serve him.

It took the Dagda Mor several moments longer to locate the Reaper. He found it finally, not more than

ten feet away, perfectly motionless, little more than a shadow in the pale light of early dawn, another bit

of fading night hunched down against the gray of the Flats. Cloaked head to foot in robes the color of

damp ashes, the Reaper was almost invisible, its face careful concealed within the shadow of a broad

hood. No one ever looked upon that face more than once. The Reaper permitted only its victims to see

that much of it, and its victims were all dead.

If the Changeling were to be judged dangerous, then the Reaper was ten times more so. The Reaper

was a killer. Killing was the sole function of its existence. It was a massive creature, heavily muscled,

almost seven feet tall when it rose to its full height. Yet its size was misleading, for it was by no means

ponderous. It moved with the ease and grace of the best Elven Hunter-smooth, fluid, quick, and

noiseless. Once it had begun a hunt, it never gave up. Nothing it went after ever escaped. Even the

Dagda Mor was wary of the Reaper, though the Reaper did not possess his power. He was wary

because the Reaper served him out of whim and not out of fear or respect as did all the others. The

Reaper feared nothing. It was a monster who cared nothing for life, even its own. It did not even kill

because it enjoyed killing, though in truth it did enjoy killing. It killed because killing was instinctive. It

killed because it found killing necessary. At times, within the darkness of the Forbidding, shut away from

every form of life but its own brethren, it had been almost unmanageable. The Dagda Mor had been

forced to give it lesser Demons to keeping it under his control with a promise. Once they were free of the

Forbidding-and they would, one day, be free-the Reaper would be given an entire world of creatures

that it might prey upon. For as long as it wished, it might hunt them. In the end, it might kill them all.

The Changeling and the Reaper. The Dagda Mor had chosen well. One would be his eyes, the other

his hands, eyes and hands that would go deep into the heart of the Elven people and end forever the

chance that the Ellcrys might be reborn.

He glanced sharply to the east where the rim of the morning sun was rising rapidly above the crest of

the Breakline. It was time to go. By tonight, they must be in Arborlon. This, too, he had planned with

care. Time was precious to him; he had little to waste if he expected to catch the Elves napping. They

must not know of his presence until it was too late to do anything about it.

With a quick motion to his companions, the Dagda Mor turned and slouched heavily toward the shelter

of the Breakline. His black eyes lidded with pleasure as he tasted in his mind the success tonight would

bring him. After tonight, the Elves would be doomed. After tonight, they would be forced to watch their

beloved Ellcrys decay without even the faintest hope for any rebirth.

Indeed. Because after tonight, the Chosen would all be dead.

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Several hundred yards from the mountains, deep within their concealing shadow, the Dagda Mor

stopped. With both hands gripping the Staff of Power, he placed it upright, one end planted firmly in the

dry, cracked earth. His head lowered slightly, and his hands tightened about the Staff. For long moments,

he stood without moving. Behind him, the other two watched curiously, their dark forms huddled down,

their eyes bits of yellow light.

Then abruptly the Staff of Power began to glow faintly, a pale reddish color that silhouetted the hulking

form of the Demon against the darkness. A moment later, the glow intensified sharply and began to

pulsate. It ran from the Staff into the arms of the Dagda Mor, turning the greenish skin to blood. The

Demon's head came up and fire shot skyward from the Staff in a thin, brilliant arc that flew into the dawn

like some frightened, living thing. It was gone in seconds. The glow that lit the Staff of Power flared once

and died.

The Dagda Mor stepped back a pace, the Staff lowering. The earth about him was charred and black,

and the damp air smelled of burning ash. The whole of the surrounding Flats had gone deathly still. The

Demon seated himself, opaque eyes lidding contentedly. He did not move again, nor did the creatures

with him. Together, they waited-half an hour, one hour, two. Still they waited.

And finally, down from the vast emptiness of the Northland, swept the monstrous, winged nightmare

the Demon had summoned to carry them east to Arborlon.

"Now shall we see," the Dagda Mor whispered.

III

The sun was barely above the horizon when Ander Elessedil stepped through the front door of his small

house and moved up the walkway toward the iron gates that fronted the palace grounds. As second son

of Eventine, King of the Elves, he could have had his rooms in the royal quarters; but years before, he

had moved himself and his books to his present residence and thereby gained a privacy that he would

have lacked within the palace. Or so he had thought at the time. Now he was less certain; with his older

brother Arion receiving most of their father's attention, Ander would probably have found himself largely

undisturbed wherever he chose to live.

He sniffed the cleanness and early warmth of the morning air and smiled briefly. A good day for a ride.

Both he and his favorite horse could use the exercise.

At forty, he was no longer a young man. His lean Elven face was lined at the corners of the narrow

eyes and the furrow of his sharply angled brow; but his step was quick and easy, and his face was almost

boyish when he smiled-though that was seldom these days.

As he neared the gates, he saw that Went, the old groundskeeper, was already at work, tending the

flower beds with a hand hoe, his thin frame bent over his work. As he heard Ander approach, Went

straightened slowly, one hand going to his back.

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"Good. morning, Prince. Nice day, eh?"

Ander nodded. "Splendid, Went. Back still bothering you?"

"Now and then." The old man rubbed himself gingerly. "Age catching up to me, I guess. But I can still

outwork the young ones they give me for help."

Ander nodded once more, knowing the old man's boast was simple truth. Went should have retired

years ago, but he'd stubbornly refused to give up his duties.

As Ander made his way through the front gate, the sentries on watch nodded in greeting, and he

nodded back. The guards and he had long since dispensed with formalities. Arion, as Crown Prince,

might insist on being treated deferentially, but Ander's position and expectations were somewhat less.

He followed the line of the roadway as it curved left around some decorative bushes toward the

stables. Then a thunder of hooves and a shout broke the morning quiet. Ander leaped aside as Arion's

gray stallion plunged toward him, scattering gravel and rearing to a sudden halt.

Before the horse was fully at rest, Arion was off and facing his brother. Where Ander was short and

dark, Arion was tall and fair, and his resemblance to their father at the same age was striking. That,

together with the fact that he was a superb athlete and an accomplished weapons master, hunter and

horseman made it inevitable that he should be Eventine's pride and joy. There was also a compelling

charisma about Arion-a charisma that Ander had always felt lacking within himself.

"Where bound, little brother?" Arion asked. As usual, when speaking to the younger Prince, his tone

held a slight hint of mockery and contempt. "I wouldn't bother our father, if I were you. He and I were up

late working on some rather pressing matters of state. He was still sleeping when I looked in."

"I was heading for the stables," Ander replied quietly. "I had no intention of bothering anyone."

Arion grinned, then turned back to his horse. With a hand on the pommel, he leapt lightly into the

saddle, disregarding the stirrup. Then he turned to look down at his brother. "Well, I'm off to the

Sarandanon for a few days. The people in the farming communities are all stirred up-some old fairy tale

of doom overtaking us all. A lot of nonsense, but I've got to settle them down. Don't get your hopes up,

though. I'll be back before father leaves for the Kershalt." He grinned. "In the meantime, little brother,

look after things, will you?"

He flipped the reins and was off in a rush that carried him through the gates and away. Ander swore

softly to himself and turned back. He was no longer in a mood to go riding.

He should have been the one to accompany the King on the mission of state to the Kershalt.

Strengthening the ties between the Trolls and the Elves was important. And while the groundwork had

already been laid, it would still require diplomacy and careful negotiating. Arion was too impatient and

reckless, with too little feeling for the needs and ideas of others. Ander might lack his brother's physical

skills-though he was capable enough-and he might lack as well Arion's natural flair for leadership. But he

possessed a gift for thorough, deliberate reasoning and the patience needed in diplomatic councils. On

the few occasions when he had been called on, he'd demonstrated such abilities.

He shrugged. There was no sense in dwelling on it now, however. He had already appealed to

Eventine to go on the journey and been turned down in favor of Arion. Arion would be King someday;

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he must have the practice at statescraft he needed while Eventine still lived to guide him. And maybe that

made sense, Ander conceded.

Once, Arion and he had been close. That was when Aine was alive-Aine, the youngest of the Elessedil

sons. But Aine had been killed in a hunting accident eleven years ago, and after that the bond of kinship

had no longer been enough. Amberle, Aine's young daughter, had turned to Ander for support, not to

Arion, and the older brother's jealousy had soon manifested itself in open contempt. Then when Amberle

had forsaken her position as one of the Chosen, Arion had blamed his brother's influence, and his

contempt had degenerated into thinly masked hostility. Now Ander suspected their father's mind was

being poisoned against him. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Still deep in thought, he was passing through the gates down the pathway to his house when a shout

brought him around.

"My Lord Prince, wait!"

Ander stared in surprise at the sight of a white-robed figure running toward him, one arm waving

frantically. It was one of the Chosen, the redheaded one-Lauren, wasn't that his name? It was unusual to

see any of them outside the Gardens at this hour. He waited until the young Elf reached him, stumbling to

a weary halt, face and arms streaked with sweat.

"My Lord Prince, I must see the King," the Chosen gasped. "And they won't let me through, not until

later. Can you take me to him now?"

Ander hesitated. "The King is still asleep."

"I must see him at once!" the other insisted. "Please! This cannot wait!"

There was desperation in his eyes and on his strained, white face. His voice was cracking with his

attempt to emphasize the urgency that was driving him. Ander deliberated, wondering what could be that

important. "If you're in some kind of trouble, Lauren, maybe I..."

"It's not me, my Lord Prince. It's the Ellcrys!"

Ander's indecision vanished. He nodded and took Lauren's arm. "Come with me."

Together they hurried back through the gates toward the manor house, the sentries staring after them in

surprise.

Gael, the young Elf who served as personal aide to Eventine Elessedil, shook his head firmly-yet within

his dark morning robe his slim form shifted uneasily and his eyes refused to meet those of Ander. "I

cannot waken the King, Prince Ander. He told me-very strongly-not to bother him for anything."

"Or anyone, Gael?" Ander asked softly "Not even for Arion?"

"Arion has left..." Gael began. Then he halted and looked even more unhappy

"Precisely. But I am here. Are you really going to tell me that I cannot see my father?"

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Terry Brooks - Shannara 02 - The Elfstones of Shannara

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