Terry Brooks - The Elfstones of Shannara

«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 sighed and turned to face Ander.

«All right, Ander, what’s this all about? Gael said something about your bringing one of the Chosen with a message?»

«Yes, sir. He claims he has an urgent message from the Ellcrys.»

«A message from the tree?» Eventine frowned. «How long has it been since she gave a message to anyone — over seven hundred years? What was the message?»

«He wouldn’t tell it to me,” Ander replied. «He insists on delivering the message to you.»

Eventine nodded. «Then deliver it he shall. Show him in, Gael.»

Gael bowed slightly and hurried out through the chamber doors, leaving them slightly ajar. A moment later a huge, shaggy dog pushed his way through and padded noiselessly to the King. It was Manx, his wolfhound, and he greeted the animal fondly, rubbing the grizzled head, stroking softly the rough coat along the back and flanks. Manx had been with him almost ten years, closer and more faithful than any man could have been.

«Getting a bit gray–like me,” Eventine muttered ruefully.

The doors opened wide to admit Gael, followed by Lauren. The Chosen paused in the doorway for a moment, glancing uncertainly at Gael. The King nodded to his aide, dismissing him. Ander was about to leave as well when a slight motion from his father indicated he was to remain. Gael bowed again and left, this time closing the doors tightly behind. When he was gone, the Chosen came forward a pace.

«My Lord, please forgive… they thought that I… I should be the one…» He was almost choking on the words.

`There is nothing to forgive,“ Eventine assured him. With a charm that Ander had always known his father could display, the King came forward quickly and put his arm about the young Elf’s shoulders. ”I know this must be very important to you or you would not have left your work in the Gardens. Here, sit down and tell me about it.“

He glanced questioningly at Ander, then guided the Chosen to a small writing table at one side of the room, seating him in one of two chairs while he took the other. Ander followed them over, but remained standing.

«Your name is Lauren, isn’t it?» Eventine asked the Chosen.

«Yes, my Lord.»

«Very well, Lauren. Now tell me why you’ve come.»

Lauren drew himself up and placed his hands on the table, folding the fingers together tightly.

«My Lord, the Ellcrys spoke to the Chosen this morning.» His words were almost a whisper. «She told us… she told us that she is dying!»

Ander felt his blood turn cold. For an instant, the King did not respond, but sat rigidly in place, his eyes fixed on the speaker.

«There must be a mistake,” he said at last.

Lauren shook his head emphatically. «There is no mistake, my Lord. She spoke to all of us. We… we all heard. She is dying. The Forbidding has already begun to crumble.»

The King rose slowly and walked to the open window, staring wordlessly out into the forest. Manx, who had curled up at the foot of the bed, rose and followed him. Ander saw the King’s hand stray down to scratch the dog’s ears mechanically.

«You are certain of this, Lauren?» Eventine asked. «Very certain?»

«Yes… yes.»

He was crying softly, almost soundlessly, at the table, his face buried in his hands. Eventine did not turn, but continued to stare fixedly into the woodlands that were his home and the home of his people.

Ander was frozen, his eyes on his father, his mind still dazed with shock. The enormity of what he had heard slowly took hold. The Ellcrys dying! The Forbidding ending. The evil that had been shut away free once more. Chaos, madness, war! In the end, the destruction of everything.

He had studied history under his tutors and again in the books of his own library. It was a history that bore the trappings of legend.

Once, long ago, in a time before the Great Wars, before the dawn of civilization in the old world, even before the emergence of the old race of Man, there had been a war between creatures of good and evil magics. The Elves had fought in that war on the side of good. It had been a long, terrible, devastating struggle. But in the end, the forces of good were victorious and the forces of evil were cast down. Yet the nature of the evil was such that it could not be totally destroyed; it could only be banished. Therefore, the Elven people and their allies pooled their magics with the life–force of the earth itself to create the Ellcrys, so that by her presence a Forbidding would be placed upon the creatures of evil. So long as the Ellcrys survived and flourished, the evil could not return upon the earth. Locked in a void of darkness, it might wail in anguish behind the wall of the Forbidding, but the earth was lost to it.

Until now! But if the Ellcrys were to die, the Forbidding must end. It had been written that this must come to pass, for no power could be so strong that it could endure forever. Yet it had seemed that the Ellcrys would, so many generations had it been there, changeless, a fixed point in a shifting maze of life. The Elven people had come to believe it would always be so. Wrong it seemed. Foolishly.