to her mother, not to anyone. Not one word. She just left.»
He trailed off helplessly. Allanon sat down across from him again, his dark eyes intense.
«She must be brought back. She is the only hope that the Elven people have.»
«Father.» Ander spoke before he had time to think better of it. Impulsively he knelt next to the old man. «Father, on the night before he was killed, Lauren told me something. He told me that the Ellcrys had spoken with Amberle many times after her choosing. That had never happened before. Perhaps Amberle is our best hope.»
The King looked at him blankly, as if the words he had spoken meant nothing. Then he placed his hands flat against the worn surface of the reading table and nodded once.
«I find that hope a slim one, Ander. Our people may accept her back again, if only because they have need of her. I am not altogether certain of this; what she has done by her rejection is unpardonable in their eyes. And perhaps the Ellcrys, too, may accept her — accept her both as a Chosen and as the bearer of her seed. I don’t pretend to have answers to those questions. Nor do my own feelings matter in this.» He turned again to Allanon. «It is Amberle herself who will stand against us, Druid. When she left this land, she left it forever. She believed strongly that it must be so; something made her believe. You do not know her, as I do. She something never return.»
Allanon’s expression did not change. «That remains to be seen. We must at least ask her.»
«I do not know where she is.» The King’s voice turned suddenly bitter. «I doubt that anyone does.»
The Druid carefully poured a measure of the herb tea and handed it to the King.
«I do.»
Eventine stared at him wordlessly for a moment. His face clouded with conflicting emotions, and there were sudden tears in his eyes, tears that were gone as fast as they had come.
«I should have guessed,” he said finally. He rose, then stepped away from the table several paces, his face partially turned into the shadows. «You are free to act in this as you will, Allanon. You already know that.»
Allanon rose with him. Then, to Ander’s surprise, he said, «I will require the services of your son for a brief time before I leave.»
Eventine did not turn. «As you wish.»
«Remember — no one is to know that I have been here.»
The King nodded. «No one shall.»
A moment later the Druid was through the curtained windows and gone. Ander stood looking at his father hesitantly, then moved to follow.
He knew the old man’s thoughts now were of Amberle.
In the blackness of the Westland forests north of the Carolan, the Dagda Mor sat quietly, his eyes closed. When they opened again, they were bright with satisfaction. The Changeling had served him well. He rose slowly, the Staff of Power flaring sharply as his hands closed about its polished wood.
«Druid,” he hissed softly. «I know of you.»
He motioned to the formless shadow that was the Reaper, and the monster rose up out of the night. The Dagda Mor looked eastward. He would wait for the Druid at Paranor. But not alone. He could sense the Druid’s power, and he was wary of it. The Reaper might be strong enough to stand against such power, but he had better use for the Reaper. No, other help would be necessary. He would bring a handful of the brethren through the eroding wall of the Forbidding.
Enough to snare the Druid. Enough to kill him.
Chapter Six
Allanon was waiting for Ander when he stepped from the lighted study, and together they retraced their steps across the palace grounds and through the small side gate to the roadway beyond. Then Allanon asked to be taken to the stables. Wordlessly the two followed a back trail that took them through a small stretch of forest to the stable paddocks and from there to the stable entry. Ander dismissed the old stableman with a word, of assurance, and Allanon and he stepped inside.
Oil lamps lit a double row of stalls, and the soft whicker of horses sounded in the stillness. Slowly Allanon passed down the line of stalls, eyes shifting from horse to horse as he walked to the end of the first row and started back up the second. Ander trailed after him and watched.
Finally the Druid stopped and turned back to Ander.
«That one,” he pointed. «I’ll need the use of him.»
Ander glanced uneasily at the horse Allanon had chosen. The horse was called Artaq, a huge coal–black stallion standing fully eighteen hands high. Artaq was big enough and strong enough to carry someone of Allanon’s size, and he could withstand a great deal of punishment. He was a hunting horse, built for stamina rather than for speed. Yet Ander knew him to be capable of great speed over short distances. His head was narrow and rather small, particularly when viewed in comparison to his great, barrelchested body. He had eyes that were set rather wide and colored a startling azure. There was intelligence in those eyes; Artaq was not a horse that could be mastered by just any man.
Indeed, that was exactly the problem. Artaq was strongwilled and thoroughly unpredictable. He enjoyed playing games with his riders, games that usually ended with the riders being thrown. More than a few had been injured in those falls. If the man riding Artaq was not strong enough and quick enough to prevent it, Artaq would find a way to shake him off within seconds after he was mounted. Few men bothered to chance this. Even the King seldom rode him anymore, though once he had been a favorite.
«There are others…» Ander suggested hesitantly, but Allanon was already shaking his head no.
«This horse will do. What is his name?»
«Artaq,” the Elven Prince replied.
Allanon studied the horse carefully for a time, then lifted the stall latch and stepped inside. Ander moved over to watch. The Druid stood quietly before the big black, then lifted his hand in invitation. To Ander’s surprise, Artaq came over. Allanon stroked the satin neck slowly, gently, and he bent forward to whisper in the horse’s ear. Then he fitted a halter to the black and led him from his stall down the walkway to where the tack was stored. Ander shook his head and followed after. The Druid selected a saddle and bridle and strapped them snugly in place after removing the halter. With a final word of encouragement, he swung up upon the horse’s back.
Ander held his breath. Slowly Allanon walked the black down one row of stalls and back along the other. Artaq was obedient and responsive; there would be no games played with this man. Allanon brought him back to where Ander stood waiting and stepped down.
«While I am gone, Even Prince,” he said, his black eyes fixed on Ander, «I entrust to you the care of your father. Be certain that no harm comes to him.» He paused. «I depend on you in this.»
Ander nodded, pleased that Allanon would show this kind of confidence in him. The Druid studied him a moment longer, then turned away. With the Elven Prince following once more, he walked Artaq to the rear of the stable and pushed ajar the wide double doors.
«Goodbye then, Ander Elessedil,” he offered and remounted. Easing Artaq through the open doors, he rode swiftly away into the darkness.
Ander watched after him until he was out of sight.
For the remainder of that night and for the better part of the three days that followed, Allanon rode Artaq eastward toward Paranor. His journey took him through the deep forests of the Westland to the mouth of the historic Valley of Rhenn and from there onto the sprawling emptiness of the Streleheim Plains. He traveled steadily, pausing only to rest, feed, and water Artaq, carefully keeping within covered areas of the land where possible, steering wide of caravan routes and well–traveled roadways. As yet, no one but the Elven King and his son knew that he had returned to the Four Lands. No one but they knew of the Druid histories at Paranor or of the seventh Chosen. If the evil that had broken through the Forbidding were to discover any of this, his quest would be seriously threatened. Secrecy was his greatest ally, and he intended that it might remain so.
At sunset on the second day of travel, he arrived at Paranor. He was certain that he had not been followed.
