Terry Brooks - The Elfstones of Shannara

Wil Ohmsford’s eyes lowered. «Perhaps so. And perhaps it would have been better if she had known from the beginning where that path you set her upon would end.» He shook his head slowly. «Odd. I thought that hearing the truth about everything that has happened would help somehow. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t help at all.»

There was a long silence. Then Wil looked up again. «In any case, I do not have the right to blame you for what has happened. You did what you had to do — I know that. I know that the choices were really Amberle’s. I know. But to lose her like this — it’s so hard…» He trailed off.

The Druid nodded. «I am sorry, Valeman.»

He started to rise, and Wil asked suddenly. «Why did you wake me now, Allanon? To tell me this?»

The big man straightened, black and faceless. «To tell you this, and to tell you goodbye, Wil Ohmsford.»

Wil stared up at him. «Goodbye?»

«Until another day, Valeman.»

«But… where are you going?»

There was no response. Wil felt himself grow sleepy again; the Druid was letting him drift back into the slumber from which he had been awakened. Stubbornly he fought against it. There were things yet to be said, and he meant to say them. Allanon could not leave him like this, disappearing into the night as unexpectedly as he had come, cloaked and hooded like some thief who feared that even the slightest glimpse of his face might give him away…

A sudden suspicion crossed his mind in that instant. Weakly he stretched forth his hand and caught the front of the Druid’s robe.

«Allanon.»

Silence filled the little sleeping room.

«Allanon — let me see your face.»

For a moment he thought the Druid had not heard him. Allanon stood motionlessly at his bedside, staring down from the shadows of his robe. The Valeman waited. Then slowly the Druid’s big hands reached up and pulled back the hood.

«Allanon!» Wil Ohmsford whispered.

The Druid’s hair and beard, once coal black, were shot through with streaks of gray Allanon had aged!

«The price one pays for use of the magic.» Allanon’s smile was slow and mocking. «This time I fear that I used too much; it drained more from me than I wished to give.» He shrugged. «There is only so much. life allotted to each of us, Valeman — only so much and no more.»

«Allanon,” Wil cried softly. «Allanon, I’m sorry. Don’t go yet.»

Allanon replaced the hood, and his hand stretched down to grasp Wil’s. «It is time for me to go. We both need to rest. Sleep well, Wil Ohmsford. Try not to think ill of me; I believe that Amberle would not. Be comforted in this: You are a Healer, and a Healer must preserve life. You have done so here — for the Elves, for the Westland. And though Amberle may seem lost to you, remember that she may be found always within the land. Touch it, and she will be with you.»

He stepped away into the dark and pinched out the candle’s flame.

«Don’t go,” Wil called out sleepily.

«Goodbye, Wil.» The deep voice drifted out of a fog. «Tell Flick that he was right about me. He will like that.»

«Allanon,” the Valeman mumbled softly and then he was asleep.

Through the dimly lit corridors of the Elessedil home the Druid stole, as silent as the shadows of the night. Home Guard patrolled these corridors, Elven Hunters who had fought and survived in the battle of the Elfitch, hard men and not easily moved. Yet they stepped aside for Allanon; something in the Druid’s glance suggested that they should.

Moments later he stood within the bedchamber of the Elven King, the door closing softly behind him. Candlelight illuminated the room with a dim, hazy glow that seeped through the gloom into shadowed corners and hidden nooks with a blind man’s touch. Windows stood closed and drapes drawn, masking the room in silence. On a wide double bed at the far end of the chamber lay Eventine, swathed in bandages and linen sheets. At his side Ander dozed fitfully in a high–backed wicker, chair.

Wordlessly, Allanon came forward and stopped at the foot of the bed. The old King slept, his breathing ragged and slow, his skin the color of new parchment.The end of his life was near. It was the passing of an age, the Druid thought. They would all be gone now, all those who had stood against the Warlock Lord, all those who had aided in the quest for the elusive Sword of Shannara — all but the Ohmsfords, Shea and Flick.

A grim, ironic smile passed slowly across his lips. And himself, of course. Ire was still there. He was always there.

Beneath the linen coverings, Eventine stirred. It will happen now, Allanon told himself. For the first time that night, a touch of bitterness showed in his hard face.

Silently he moved back within the concealing shadows at the rear of the room and waited.

Ander Elessedil came awake with a start. Eyes blurred with sleep, he peered guardedly about the empty bedchamber, searching for ghosts that were not there. A frightening sense of aloneness swept through him. So many of those who should have been there were not: Arion, Pindanon, Crispin, Ehlron Tay, Kerrin. All dead.

He slumped back in the wicker chair, weariness numbing him until he could feel nothing but the ache of joints and muscles. How long had he slept, he wondered? He didn’t know. Gael would be back soon, bringing food and drink, and together they would keep this vigil, watching over the stricken King. Waiting.

Memories haunted him, memories of his father and what had been, spectral images of the past, of times and places and events that would never be again. They were bittersweet, a reminder both of the happiness shared and its transience. On balance, he would have preferred that the memories leave him in peace this night.

He thought suddenly of his father and Amberle, of the special affection they had felt for each other, the closeness that had been lost and found again — gone now, all of it. It was difficult even now to comprehend the transformation that Amberle had undergone. He had to keep reminding himself that it was real, that it was not imagined. He could still see the little Wing Rider, Perk, telling him what he had witnessed, his child’s face awestruck and frightened all at once, so determined and so concerned that he should not be doubted.

His head tilted back and his eyes closed. Few knew the truth yet. He was still undecided as to whether or not it should remain that way.

«Ander.»

He jerked upright, and his father’s penetrating blue eyes met his own. He was so surprised that, for an instant, he simply stared down at the old man.

«Ander — what has happened?»

The Elven King’s voice was a thin, harsh whisper in the stillness. Quickly Ander knelt down beside him.

«It is over,” he replied softly. «We have won. The Demons are locked once more within the Forbidding. The Ellcrys…»

He could not finish. He did not have the words. His father’s hand slipped from beneath the coverings to find his own.

«Amberle?»

Ander took a deep breath, and there were tears in his eyes. He forced himself to meet his father’s gaze.

«Safe,” he whispered. «Resting now.»

There was a long pause. A trace of a smile slipped across his father’s face.

Then his eyes closed. A moment later he was dead.

Allanon stood within the shadows several minutes more before stepping forward.

«Ander,” he called softly.

The Elven Prince rose, releasing his father’s hand. «He’s gone, Allanon. ”

«And you are King. Be the King he would have wanted you to be.»

Ander turned, his eyes searching. «Did you know, Allanon? I have wondered often since Baen Draw. Did you know that all this would happen, that I would be King?»

The Druid’s features seemed to close in about him momentarily, and his dark face lost all expression. «I could not have prevented from happening that which happened, Elven Prince,” he replied slowly. «I could only try to prepare you for what was to be.»