Terry Brooks - The Elfstones of Shannara

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.

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…»