that was long since past. His feelings had changed with the death of his brother — changed further with Amberle’s betrayal of her trust as a Chosen. There was great bitterness within the Crown Prince, much of it caused by the obvious hurt that this girl had brought to the King It was impossible to tell how deep that bitterness ran. Deep, Ander thought and was troubled by what that might mean.
The King’s Fist Minister, Emer Chios, occupied the chair next to Arion. As First Minister, it was Chios who presided over the Council in the King’s absence. An articulate, persuasive man, he could be depended upon to express his feelings candidly. Although Eventine and his First Minister were not always in agreement on matters that came before the Council, they nevertheless had great respect for each other’s opinions. Eventine would listen closely to what his First Minister had to say.
Kael Pindanon, Commander of the Elven Army, was the King’s oldest and closest friend. Though ten years younger than the King, Pindanon looked at least that much older, his face seamed like dry wood, his gnarled frame rawhide tough, scarred and knotted from a lifetime of combat. White hair flowed down below his shoulders, and a great, drooping mustache arched about the thin line of his mouth. Iron hard and fixed of purpose, Pindanon was the most predictable of Eventine’s advisers. The old soldier was completely, devoted to the King; he always advised with the King’s interests foremost in mind. It would be so with Amberle.
The last man at the table was not a member of the High Council. He was younger even than Ander, a slim, darkhaired Elf with an alert air and anxious brown eyes. He sat next to Pindanon, his chair drawn back slightly from the oval table, not speaking to the others but watching them in silence. Twin daggers were strapped about his waist and a broadsword hung in its scabbard from the back of his chair. He wore no insignia of office save for a small medallion that bore the crest of the Elessedils and dangled from a silver chain about his neck. His name was Crispin. He was Captain of the Home Guard, the elite corps of Elven Hunters whose sole duty was the protection of the King. His presence at this Council was something of a mystery; he was not a man from whom Ander would have expected his father to seek advice. But then, his father did not always do what Ander expected.
He paused in his evaluation. With different backgrounds and different personalities, the men his father had gathered were alike only in their absolute loyalty to the old King. Perhaps because of that loyalty, they were men to whom Eventine felt he might safely entrust the decision, however difficult, that must be made concerning Amberle. Perhaps, too, they were here because they were the ones whose counsel he would seek when it came time to defend the Elven homeland.
And that time was near. The inevitability of a terrible struggle between Elves and Demons confronted them at every turn. Each day the Ellcrys weakened further, decay and wilt spreading inexorably through her branches, stripping her of beauty and life, weakening the power that maintained the Forbidding. Each day new reports were received of strange and frightening creatures, things born of nightmares and dark fantasies, prowling the borders of the Westland. Elven soldiers patrolled from the Valley of Rhenn to the Sarandanon, from the Matted Brakes to the Kershalt, and still the number of these creatures grew. It was certain that more would follow, until at last enough had broken free to unite and attack the Elves in force.
Ander rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together against his forehead, shading his eyes against the light. The Ellcrys was failing so quickly that he wondered whether enough time remained to reach the Bloodfire, even if Allanon had succeeded in his quest. Time! It all came down to that.
The massive doors at the far end of the chamber swung open and six heads turned as one. Allanon strode through, tall and forbidding in his black robes. With him came two smaller figures, cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden.
Amberle! Ander thought at once. One of them must be Amberle!
But who ways the second?
All three moved wordlessly to the opposite end of the wide oval table. There the Druid seated his companions, then raised his dark face toward the King.
«My Lord Eventine.» He bowed slightly.
«Allanon,” the King replied. «You are welcome.»
«All are assembled»
«All,” Eventine assured him, then named them one by one, «Please say what you have come to say.»
Allanon came forward several paces until he stood midway between the Elves and the two cloaked figures.
«Very well. I would say this once only, so I ask that you listen and heed. The Elven nation stands in grave peril. The Ellcrys is dying. She fails quickly now, more quickly with the passing of each day. As she fails, the wall of the Forbidding weakens. Already the Demons your forefathers imprisoned within begin to break loose once more into your world. Soon all will be free and, once free, they will seek your annihilation.»
The Druid came forward a pace. «Do not disbelieve this, Elven Lords. You do not yet appreciate, as I do, the extent of the hatred that drives them. I have seen but a handful of these creatures, a handful that have crossed already through the Forbidding, but even those few conveyed to me the whole of the hatred that has consumed them all. That hatred is awesome. It gives them power — more power than they possessed when they were first shut from the earth. I do not think that you will be able to stand against it.»
«You do not know the Elven army!» Pindanon’s face was dark.
«Commander.» Eventine spoke softly. The old soldier turned at once. «Let us hear him out.»
Pindanon sat back, frustration lining his jaw.
«The Ellcrys is the key to your preservation,” Allanon continued, ignoring Pindanon. «When the Ellcrys dies, the Forbidding will be lost. The magic that created it will be lost. One thing can prevent that, and one thing only. In accordance with the Elven legend and the laws of magic that gave her life, the Ellcrys must undergo a rebirth. That can be accomplished in only one way. You know it well. A Chosen in service to the tree must carry her seed to the source of all life, the earth’s Bloodfire. There the seed must be wholly immersed in the Fire, then returned to the earth where the mother tree roots. Then will there be new life for the Ellcrys. Then will the wall of the Forbidding be restored and the Demons shut once more from the earth.
«Men of Arborlon. Two weeks earlier, having discovered that the Ellcrys was dying, I came to Eventine Elessedil to offer what aid I could. I came too slowly. The Forbidding had begun to weaken already, permitting, a few of the Demons imprisoned within to escape. Before I could act to prevent it, they had slain the Chosen, killing them as they slept, killing all they found.
«Nevertheless, I told the King that I would seek to aid the Elves in two ways. First, I would travel to Paranor to the castle of the Druids and there search the histories of my predecessors in an effort to learn the secret of the word ‘Safehold.’ I have done this. I have discovered where the Bloodfire can be found.»
He paused, studying the faces of the men who listened. «I told the King as well that I would seek out one who might bear the seed of the Ellcrys in quest of the Bloodfire, for I believed that such a person existed. I have done this also. I have brought that person with me to Arborlon.»
Ander tensed expectantly as a murmur of disbelief rose out of the men assembled. Allanon turned and beckoned to the smaller of the two cloaked figures.
«Come forward.»
Hesitantly, the dark form rose, then walked to stand beside the Druid.
«Lower your hood.»
Again there was hesitation. The Elves leaned forward impatiently — all but Eventine, who sat rigidly in his chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms.
«Lower your hood,” Allanon repeated gently.
This time the cloaked figure obeyed. Slim brown hands reached from beneath the folds of the robe and pulled back the concealing hood. Amberle’s sea–green eyes, frozen with uncertainty, met those of her grandfather. There was an instant of stunned silence.
Then Arion sprang to his feet, livid with rage. «No! No, Druid! Take her out of here! Take her back to wherever it was you found her!»
Ander rose halfway out of his chair, shock reflected in his face at his brother’s words, but his father caught his arm and brought him back to his seat. Quick, angry comments were exchanged, but the words were lost in a jumbled mix of voices that drowned one another out.
Eventine’s hand went up sharply, and the room was still again.
«We will hear Allanon out,” he repeated firmly, and Arion slipped back into his chair.
The Druid nodded. «I would ask you all to remember this. Only a Chosen in service may bear the seed of the
