Terry Brooks - Shannara 02 - Elfstones of Shannara

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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.
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."
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
"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; 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?"
Gael did not answer. Then, as Ander started toward the King's bedroom, the young Elf
hurried past him. "I'll wake him. Please wait here."
It was several minutes before he came out again, his face still troubled, but he nodded
toward Ander "He will see you, Prince Ander. But for now, just you."
The King was still in his bed as Ander entered, finishing the small glass of wine that Gael
must have poured for him. He nodded at his son, then slipped gingerly from beneath the warmth
of the bedcovers, his aging body shivering for an instant in the early morning coolness of the
room. Gael, who had come in with Ander, was holding out a robe, and Eventine drew it about
him, belting it snugly at the waist.
Despite his eighty-two years, Eventine Elessedil was in excellent health. His body was
trim and hard. He was still able to ride, still quick and sure enough to be dangerous with a sword.
His mind was sharp and alert; when the situation demanded it, as the situation frequently did, he
was decisive. He still possessed that uncanny sense of balance, of proportion-the capability of
seeing all sides of an issue, of judging each on its merits, and of choosing almost without
exception that which would work the greatest benefit to himself and to those he ruled. It was a
gift without which he could not have stayed King-would not even have stayed alive. It was a gift
Ander had some reason to believe he had inherited, though it seemed worthless enough, in his
present circumstances.
The King crossed to the handwoven curtains that draped the far wall, drew them aside,
and pushed outward several of the floor-length windows that opened into the forest beyond.
Light flooded the chamber, soft and sweet, and the smell of morning dew. Behind him, Gael was
moving silently about, lighting the oil lamps to chase the last of the gloom from the corners of
the chamber. Eventine hesitated before a window, staring fixedly for an instant at the reflection
of his face in the misted glass. The eyes mirrored there were startlingly blue, hard and
penetrating, the eyes of a man who has seen too many years and too much unpleasantness. He
摘要：

IThenightskybrightenedfaintlyintheeastwiththeapproachofdawnastheChosenenteredtheGardensofLife.Without,theElvencityofArborlonlaysleeping,itspeoplestillwrappedinthewarmthandsolitudeoftheirbeds.ButfortheChosenthedayhadalreadybegun.TheirtrailingwhiterobesbillowingslightlywitharushofsummerWind,theypassed...

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