Terry Brooks - Heritage Of Shannara

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CHAPTER

FIRE.

It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant and

solitary in the windows and entryways of her people's

homes. It spat and hissed as it licked at the pitch-coated

torches bracketing road intersections and gates. It glowed

through breaks in the leafy branches of the ancient oak and

hickory where glassed lanterns lined the treelanes. Bits and pieces

of flickering light, the flames were like tiny creatures that the

night threatened to search out and consume.

Like ourselves, she thought.

Like the Elves.

Her gaze lifted, traveling beyond the buildings and walls of

the city to where Killeshan steamed.

Fire.

It glowed redly out of the volcano's ragged mouth, the glare

of its molten core reflected in the clouds of vog-volcanic ash-

that hung in sullen banks across the empty sky. Killeshan loomed

over them, vast and intractable, a phenomenon of nature that

no Elven magic could hope to withstand. For weeks now the

rumbling had sounded from deep within the earth, dissatisfied,

purposeful, a buildingup of pressure that would eventually de-

mand release.

For now, the lava burrowed and tunneled through cracks

and fissures in its walls and ran down into the waters of the

ocean in long, twisting ribbons that burned off the jungle and

the things that lived within it. One day soon now, she knew,

this secondary venting would not be enough, and Killeshan

would erupt in a conflagration that would destroy them all.

If any of them remained by then.

She stood at the edge of the Gardens of Life close to where

the Elicrys grew. The ancient tree lifted skyward as if to fight

through the vog and breathe the cleaner air that lay sealed

above. Silver branches glimmered faintly with the light of lan-

terns and torches; scarlet leaves reflected the volcano's darker

glow. Scatterings of fire danced in strange patterns through

breaks in the tree as if trying to form a picture. She watched

the images appear and fade, a mirror of her thoughts, and the

sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her.

What am I to do? she thought desperately. What choices are

left me?

None, she knew. None, but to wait.

She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and all she

could do was to wait.

She gripped the Ruhk Staff tightly and glanced skyward with

a grimace. There were no stars or moon this night. There had

been little of either for weeks, only the vog, thick and impene-

trable, a shroud waiting to descend, to cover their bodies, to

enfold them all, and to wrap them away forever.

She stood stiffly as a hot breeze blew over her, ruffling the

fine linen of her clothing. She was tall, her body angular and

long limbed. The bones of her face were prominent, shaping

features that were instantly recognizable. Her cheekbones were

high, her forehead broad, and her jaw sharp-edged and smooth

beneath her wide, thin mouth. Her skin was drawn tight against

her face, giving her a sculpted look. Flaxen hair tumbled to her

shoulders in thick, unruly curls. Her eyes were a strange, pierc-

ing blue and always seemed to be seeing things not immediately

apparent to others. She seemed much younger than her fifty-

odd years. When she smiled, which was often, she brought

smiles to the faces of others almost effortlessly.

She was not smiling now. It was late, well after midnight,

and her weariness was like a chain that would not let her go.

She could not sleep and had come to walk in the Gardens, to

listen to the night, to be alone with her thoughts, and to try to

find some small measure of peace. But peace was elusive, her

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thoughts were small demons that taunted and teased, and the

night was a great, hungering black cloud that waited patiently

for the moment when it would at last extinguish the frail spark

of their lives.

Fire, again. Fire to give life and fire to snuff it out. The image

whispered at her insidiously.

She turned abruptly and began walking through the Gar-

dens. Cort trailed behind her, a silent, invisible presence. If she

bothered to look for him, he would not be there. She could

picture him in her mind, a small, stocky youth with incredible

quickness and strength. He was one of the Home Guard, pro-

tectors of the Elven rulers, the weapons that defended them, the

lives that were given up to preserve their own. Cort was her

shadow, and if not Cort, then Dal. One or the other of them

was always there, keeping her safe. As she moved along the

pathway, her thoughts slipped rapidly, one to the next. She felt

the roughness of the ground through the thin lining of her slip-

pers. Arborlon, the city of the Elves, her home, brought out of

the Westland more than a hundred years ago-here, to this .

She left the thought unfinished. She lacked the words to

complete it.

Elven magic, conjured anew out of faerie time, sheltered the

city, but the magic was beginning to fail. The mingled fragrances

of the Garden's flowers were overshadowed by the acrid smells

of Killeshan's gases where they had penetrated the outer barri-

er of the Keel. Night birds sang gently from the trees and cov-

erings, but even here their songs were undercut by the guttural

sounds of the dark things that lurked beyond the city's walls in

the jungles and swamps, that pressed up against the Keel, wait-

ing.

The monsters.

The trail she followed ended at the northern most edge of

the Gardens on a promontory overlooking her home. The pal-

ace windows were dark, the people within asleep, all but her.

Beyond lay the city, clusters of homes and shops tucked behind

the Keel's protective barrier like frightened animals hunkered

down in their dens. Nothing moved, as if fear made movement

Impossible, as if movement would give them away. She shook

her head sadly. Arborlon was an island surrounded by enemies.

Behind, to the east, was Killeshan, rising up over the city, a

great, jagged mountain formed by lava rock from eruptions over

the centuries, the volcano dormant until only twenty years ago,

now alive and anxious. North and south the jungle grew, thick

and impenetrable, stretching away in a tangle of green to the

shores of the ocean. West, below the slopes on which Arborlon

was seated, lay the Rowen, and beyond the wall of Blackledge.

None of it belonged to the Elves. Once the entire world had

belonged to them, before the coming of Man. Once there had

been nowhere they could not go. Even in the time of the Druid

Allanon, just three hundred years before, the whole of the West-

land had been theirs. Now they were reduced to this small space,

besieged on all sides, imprisoned behind the wall of their failing

magic. All of them, all that remained, trapped.

She looked out at the darkness beyond the Keel, picturing

in her mind what waited there. She thought momentarily of the

irony of it-the Elves, made victims of their own magic, of their

own clever, misguided plans, and of fears that should never have

been heeded. How could they have been so foolish?

Far down from where she stood, near the end of the Keel

where it buttressed the hardened lava of some long past runoff,

there was a sudden flare of light-a spurt of fire followed by a

quick, brilliant explosion and a shriek. There were brief shouts

and then silence. Another attempt to breach the walls and an-

other death. It was a nightly occurrence now as the creatures

grew bolder and the magic continued to fail.

She glanced behind her to where the topmost branches of

the Ellcrys lifted above the Garden trees, a canopy of life. The

tree had protected the Elves from so much for so long. It had

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Terry Brooks - Heritage Of Shannara

renewed and restored. It had given peace. But it could not pro-

tect them now, not against what threatened this time.

Not against themselves.

She grasped the Rukh Staff in defiance and felt the magic

surge within, a warming against her palm and fingers. The Staff

wac thick and gnarled and polished to a fine sheen. It had been

hewn from black walnut and imbued with the magic of her

people. Fixed to its tip was the Loden, white brilliance against

the darkness of the night. She could see herself reflected in its

facets. She could feel herself reach within. The Ruhk Staff had

given strength to the rulers of Arborlon for more than a century

But the Staff could not protect the Elves either.

"Cort?" she called softly.

The Home Guard materialized beside her.

"Stand with me a moment," she said.

They stood without speaking and looked out over the city.

She felt impossibly alone. Her people were threatened with ex-

tinction. She should be doing something. Anything. What if the

dreams were wrong? What if the visions of Eowen Cerise were

mistaken? That had never happened, of course, but there was

so much at stake! Her mouth tightened angrily. She must be-

lieve. It was necessary that she believe. The visions would come

to pass. The girl would appear to them as promised, blood of

her blood. The girl would appear.

But would even she be enough?

She shook the question away. She could not permit it. She

could not give way to her despair.

She wheeled about and walked swiftly back through the

Gardens to the pathway leading down again. Cort stayed with

her for a moment, then faded away into the shadows. She did

not see him go. Her mind was on the future, on the foretellings

of Eowen, and on the fate of the Elven people. She was deter-

mined that her people would survive. She would wait for the

girl for as long as she could, for as long as the magic would keep

their enemies away. She would pray that Eowen's visions were

true.

She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and she

would do what she must.

Fire.

It burned within as well.

Sheathed in the armor of her convictions, she went down

out of the Gardens of Life in the slow hours of the early morn-

ing to sleep.

CHAPTER

REN OHMSFORD YAWNED. She sat on a bluff overlooking

the Blue Divide, her back to the smooth trunk of an

ancient willow. The ocean stretched away before her,

a shimmering kaleidoscope of colors at the horizons

edge where the sunset streaked the waters with splashes of red

and gold and purple and low-hanging clouds formed strange pat-

terns against the darkening sky. Twilight was settling comfort-

ably in place, a graying of the light, a whisper of an evening

breeze off the water, a calm descending. Crickets were begin-

ning to chirp, and fireflies were winking into view.

Wren drew her knees up against her chest, struggling to stay

upright when what she really wanted to do was lie down. She

hadn't slept for almost two days now, and fatigue was catching

up with her. It was shadowed and cool where she sat beneath

the willow's canopy, and it would have been easy to let go, slip

down, curl up beneath her cloak, and drift away. Her eyes closed

involuntarily at the prospect, then snapped open again instantly.

She could not sleep until Garth returned, she knew. She must

stay alert.

She rose and walked out to the edge of the bluff, feeling the

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Terry Brooks - Heritage Of Shannara

breeze against her face, letting the sea smells fill her senses.

Cranes and gulls glided and swooped across the waters, graceful

and languid as they flew. Far out, too far to be seen clearly,

some great fish cleared the water with an enormous splash and

disappeared. She let her gaze wander. The coastline ran unbro-

ken from where she stood for as far as the eye could see, ragged,

tree-grown bluffs backed by the stark, whitecapped mountains

of the Rock Spur north and the Irrybis south. A series of rocky

beaches separated the bluffs from the water, their stretches lit-

tered with driftwood and shells and ropes of seaweed.

Beyond the beaches, there was only the empty expanse of

the Blue Divide. She had traveled to the end of the known

world, she thought wryly, and still her search for the Elves

went on.

An owl hooted in the deep woods behind her, causing her

to turn. She cast about cautiously for movement, for any sign

of disturbance, and found none. There was no hint of Garth.

He was still out, tracking .

She ambled back to the cooling ashes of the cooking fire

and nudged the remains with her boot. Garth had forbidden

any sort of real fire until he made certain they were safe. He

had been edgy and suspicious all day, troubled by something

that neither of them could see, a sense of something not being

right. Wren was inclined to attribute his uneasiness to lack of

sleep. On the other hand, Garth's hunches were seldom wrong.

If he was disturbed, she knew better than to question him.

She wished he would return.

A pool sat just within the trees behind the bluff and she

walked to it, knelt, and splashed water on her face. The pond's

surface rippled with the touch of her hands and cleared. She

could see herself in its reflection, the distortion clearing until

her image was almost mirrorlike. She stared down at it-at a girl

barely grown, her features decidedly Elven with sharply pointed

ears and slanted brows, her face narrow and high cheeked, and

her skin nut-brown. She saw hazel eyes that seldom stayed fixed,

an off-center smile that suggested she enjoyed some private joke,

and ash-blond hair cut short and tightly curled. There was a

tautness to her, she thought-a tension that would not be dis-

pelled no matter how valiant the effort employed.

She rocked back on her heels and permitted herself a wry

smile, deciding that she liked what she saw well enough to live

with it awhile longer.

She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head. The

Search for the Elves-how long had it been going on now? How

long Since the old man-the one who claimed he was Cogline-

had come to her and told her of the dreams? Weeks? But how

many? She had lost count. The old man had known of the

dreams and challenged her to discover for herself the truth be-

hind them. She had decided to accept his challenge, to go to

the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale and meet with the shade

of Allanon. Why shouldn't she? Perhaps she would learn some-

thing of where she had come from, of the parents she had never

known, or of her history.

Odd. Until the old man had appeared, she had been disin-

terested in her lineage. She had persuaded herself that it didn't

matter. But something in the way he spoke to her, in the words

he used-something-had changed her.

She reached up to finger the leather bag about her neck self-

consciously, feeling the hard outline of the painted rocks, the

play Elfstones, her only link to the past. Where did they come

from? Why had they been given to her?

Elven features, Ohmsford blood, and Rover heart and skills-

they all belonged to her. But how had she come by them?

Who was she?

She hadn't found out at the Hadeshorn. Allanon had come

as promised, dark and forbidding even in death. But he had told

her nothing. Instead, he had given her a charge-had given each

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of them a charge, the children of Shannara, as he called them,

Par and Walker and herself. But hers? Well. She shook her head

at the memory. She was to go in search of the Elves, to find

them and bring them back into the world of men. The Elves,

who hadn't been seen by anyone in over a hundred years, who

were believed by most never even to have existed, and who

were presumed a child's faerie tale-she was to find them.

She had not planned to look at first, disturbed by what she

had heard and how it had made her feel, unwilling to become

involved, or to risk herself for something she did not understand

or care about. She had left the others and with Garth once again

her only companion had gone back into the Westland. She had

thought to resume her life as a Rover. The Shadowen were not

her concern. The problems of the races were not her own. But

the Druid's admonition had stayed with her, and almost without

realizing it she had begun her search after all. It had started with

a few questions, asked here and there. Had anyone heard if there

reallY were any Elves? Had anyone ever seen one? Did anyone

know where they might be found? They were questions that

were asked lightly at first, self-consciously, but with growing

curiositY as time wore on, then almost an urgency.

What if Allanon were right? What if the Elves were still out

there somewhere? What if they alone possessed whatever was

necessary to overcome the Shadowen plague?

But the answers to her questions had all been the same. No

one knew anything of the Elves. No one cared to know.

And then someone had begun following them-someone or

something-their shadow as they came to call it, a thing clever

enough to track them despite their precautions and stealthy

enough to avoid being caught at it. Twice they had thought to

trap it and failed. Any number of times they had tried to back-

track to get around behind it and been unable to do so. They

had never seen its face, never even caught a glimpse of it. They

had no idea who or what it was.

It had still been with them when they had entered the Wilde-

run and gone down into Grimpen Ward. There, two nights ear-

lier, they had found the Addershag. A Rover had told them of

the old woman, a seer it was said who knew secrets and who

might know something of the Elves. They had found her in the

basement of a tavern, chained and imprisoned by a group of

men who thought to make money from her gift. Wren had

tricked the men into letting her speak to the old woman, a

creature far more dangerous and cunning than the men holding

her had suspected.

The memory of that meeting was still vivid and frightening.

The old woman was a dried husk, and her face had withered into a

maze of lines and furrows. Ragged white hair tumbled down about her frail

shoulders Wren approached and knelt before her. The ancient head lifted,

revealing blind eyes that were milky and fixed.

"Are you the seer they call the Addershag, old mother?" Wren asked

softly.

The staring eyes blinked and a thin voice rasped. "Who wishes to know?

Tell me your name."

"My name is Wren Ohmsford."

Aged bands reached out to touch her face, exploring its lines and hollows,

scraping along the skin like dried leaves. The hands withdrew.

"You are an Elf."

"I have Elven blood."

"An Elf!" The old woman's voice was rough and insistent, a hiss against

the silence of the alehouse cellar. The wrinkled face cocked to one side as if

reflecting. "I am the Addershag. What do you wish of me?"

Wren rocked back slightly on the heels of her boots. "I am searching

for the Westland Elves. I was told a week ago that you might know where

to find them-if they still exist."

The Adders hag cackled. "Oh, they exist, all right. They do indeed.

But it's not to everyone they show themselves-to none at all in many years.

Is it so important to you, Elf-girl, that you see them? Do you search them

out because you have need of your own kind?" The milky eyes stared

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Terry Brooks - Heritage Of ShannaraCHAPTERIFIRE.It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant andsolitary in the windows and entryways of her people'shomes. It spat and hissed as it licked at the pitch-coatedtorches bracketing road intersections and gates. It glowedthrough breaks in the leafy bran...

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Terry Brooks - Heritage Of Shannara

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