Terry Brooks - First King of Shannara

“You know why this was done, don’t you?” Jerle asked Tay suddenly, breaking a silence that had gone on for some time.

Tay looked at him. “The killings?”

Jerle nodded. “To disrupt things. To throw us off balance. To stop us from mobilizing the army.“ He sounded tired. ”In short, to prevent us from sending help to the Dwarves. With Courtann dead, the Elves will not do anything until a new king is chosen. The Warlock Lord knows this. That’s why he sent his assassins to Arborlon with orders to kill everyone. By the time we are regrouped sufficiently even to make a decision about ourselves, it will be too late for the Dwarves. The Eastland will have fallen.”

Tay took a deep breath. “We can’t let that happen.”

Jerle snorted derisively. “We can’t stop it! It’s done!” He gestured dismissively. “Courtann Ballindarroch will be lucky to live out another day. You saw what was done to him. He’s not a strong man, Tay. I don’t know why he’s still alive.”

Jerle pushed himself back against the wall, feet drawing up on the seat before him, looking a little like a small boy being kept indoors against his will. His clothes were in tatters; he hadn’t changed them since the fight. A wicked slash ran down the left side of his jaw. He had washed it and forgotten it. He looked a wreck.

Tay glanced down at himself. He didn’t look any better. They were both in need of a bath and sleep.

“What else will he do to stop us, do you think?” Jerle asked softly.

Tay shook his head. “Nothing here. What else is there to do? But he will go after Risca and Bremen, I expect. Maybe he already has.“ He looked out into the rain, listening to its patter on the glass.

“I wish I could warn them. I wish I knew where Bremen was.”

He thought of what had been done this night to the Elves—their royal family decimated, their sense of security shattered, their peace of mind lost. Much had been taken from them, and he was not at all certain that any of it could be regained. Jerle was right. Until the king recovered or died and was replaced, the High Council would do nothing to help the Dwarves. No one would take responsibility for such a decision. It wasn’t clear if anyone could. Alyten might attempt to act in his father’s place, but it was unlikely. Not strong like his father, he was a reckless, impulsive youth who had not been given a lot of responsibility in his life. Mostly, he had served as his father’s aide and done what he was told. He had no experience at leading. He would be king if Courtann died, but the High Council would not be quick to support his decisions. Nor would Alyten be quick to make them. He would be cautious and indecisive, anxious not to err. It was the wrong time for him to be king. The Warlock Lord would be quick to take advantage.

The size and complexity of the dilemma was depressing. The Elves knew who was responsible for the attack. The Skull Bearer had been clearly seen before its destruction, and the Gnome Hunters had been identified. Beth served the Warlock Lord. But Brona was faceless and omnipresent in the Pour Lands, a force that lacked a center, a legend bordering on myth, and no one knew how to reveal him. He was there, and yet he wasn’t. He existed, but to what extent? How were they to proceed against him? With the Druids destroyed at Paranor, there was no one to tell them what to do, no one to advise them, no one they respected enough to heed. In two swift strikes, the Warlock Lord had destroyed the balance of power in the Four Lands and rendered the strongest of the Races immobile.

“We can’t just sit here,” Jerle observed pointedly, as if reading Tay’s thoughts.

Tay nodded. He was thinking that time was slipping away, that he was suddenly in danger of failing to accomplish what Bremen had required of him. He stared out into the rain, a gray haze that rendered the world beyond his window seat muddy and indistinct.

Where once so much had seemed certain, now nothing was assured.

“If we can do nothing for the Dwarves, we must at least do something for ourselves,” he said quietly. His eyes fixed on Jerle’s. “We must go in search of the Black Elfstone.”

His friend studied him a moment, then nodded slowly. “We could, couldn’t we? Courtann has already given his approval.” A hint of excitement nickered in the hard blue eyes. “It will give us something to do while we wait out events here. And if we find the Stone, it will give us a weapon to use against the Warlock Lord.”

“Or at least deprive him of one he might use against us.” Tay was mindful of Bremen’s warning about the power of the Black Elfstone. He straightened on the window seat, shrugging off his depression, his sense of purpose returning.

“Well, well, look at you, my friend,” Jerle observed archly. “I like you better this way.”

Tay stood up, anxious. “How soon can we leave?”

A smile played at the comer of Jerle Shannara’s lips. “How soon can you be ready?”

They set out at dawn of the following day, Tay and Jerle and the few they had chosen to go with them, leaving the city quietly, while its citizens were still waking and their departure would go unnoticed. They were only fifteen in number, so it was not difficult to slip away without being seen.

Tay and Jerle had advised the others of the little company only the night before. They were not being underhanded in their stealth; they were simply being cautious. The fewer who knew of their departure or who saw them leave, the fewer who could talk about it. Even idle conversation had a way of reaching me wrong ears.

The High Council knew of their plans. Alyten, still not returned from his hunting trip, would be told later. That was enough. Even their immediate families did not know where they were going or what they were about. After what had happened to the Ballindarrochs, no one was taking any unnecessary chances.

It was a worrisome situation they were leaving behind. Ballindarroch hovered near death, and it was not clear yet whether he would recover. The High Council would manage the affairs of state in his absence, as Elven law required, but as a practical matter would do little until the king’s fate was determined. Alyten, as the only surviving son, would rule in his father’s place, but only nominally until a formal coronation became necessary. Life would go on, but the business of governing would slow to a near halt. The army would stay on alert, its commanders doing what was necessary to protect the city and its people and to a lesser extent the Elves living in the countryside beyond. But the army’s actions would be strictly defensive in nature, and no one would advocate forays beyond the Westland borders until Ballindarroch recovered or his son took his place. That meant no aid would be sent to the Dwarves. So hidebound was the High Council on this matter that it refused even to commit to sending word to the Dwarves about what had befallen. Both Tay and Jerle separately begged the Council to do so, but they were told only that their request would be considered. Suddenly, secrecy became the order of the day. Since there was nothing more they could do about the matter, Tay and Jerle chose not to delay their departure. The king would live or he would die, Alyten would become king or he wouldn’t, and the High Council would send word to the Dwarves or stay silent—all of it would work out one way or the other, and their presence in Arborlon would change nothing. It was better to get on with their search for the Black Elfstone and make a difference where they could.

There were other reasons for leaving as well. Two unexpected issues had surfaced as a result of the assassinations, one affecting Tay, the other Jerle. Both lent urgency to their plans to depart the city.