out. Allanon had drawn Eventine aside and was speaking to him, their words hushed and secretive. There appeared to be some argument between them. Then, with a reluctant nod, the Elven King departed as well. Wil and Amberle were left alone with the Druid.
Allanon beckoned. «Follow me.»
Quickly he led them from the council room, ushering them back down the outer hallway until they stood once more in the cool dark of the entry beyond. The Druid paused, listened, and then turned to them.
«Amberle.» He waited until her eyes were fixed on his. «I want you to go to the Ellcrys tonight.»
Surprise and confusion registered on the Elven girl’s face.
«Why?» she asked in disbelief, then quickly shook her head. «No. No, this is too quick! I want time to prepare myself before I do this. Besides, you just finished telling my father and the others that it would be a day, or two before I went to her!»
Allanon nodded patiently. «A small but necessary deception. As for preparation, what preparation will you make? This is not a test of skill or endurance; no amount of preparation will help you. Either you are still a Chosen in service to the tree or you are not.»
«I am tired, Druid!» She was angry now: «I am tired and I need to sleep! I cannot do this thing now!»
«You must.» He paused. «I know that you are tired; I know that you need sleep. But that will have to wait. You must first go to the tree — and you must do so now.»
She went rigid at his words, a trapped look springing into her eyes. Then she began to cry, uncontrollably. It was as if everything that had happened — the unexpected appearance of the Druid at her cottage, the news that the Ellcrys was dying and the Chosen slain, the realization that she must return to Arborlon, the harrowing flight north from Havenstead, the confrontation with the Council and her grandfather, and now this — had caught up with her all at once and overwhelmed her completely. All of her defenses seemed to give way She stood before them, small and vulnerable, sobbing, choking on words that would not come. When Allanon reached for her, she pulled quickly away, stepping apart from them both for several long minutes. Wil Ohmsford stared after her helplessly.
She stopped crying finally, her face still turned away from them. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
«Is it truly necessary, Allanon — truly necessary — that I go to her tonight?»
The Druid nodded. «Yes, Elven girl.»
There was a long silence. «Then I will do so.»
Quiet and composed once more, she rejoined them. Without a word, Allanon led them out into the streets of the city.
Chapter Nineteen
Pale silver moonlight spilled down out of the heavens and washed the summer night. Sweet smells and comforting hums rose out of the dark in slow, dizzying waves that floated, and danced in the warm breezes and brushed the hedgerows and stands, the flower banks, and the bushes of the Garden of Life. Dappled shadows layered the Gardens’ colors in oddly knit patterns of black and white. Tiny life forms that awoke with darkness skittered and flew with sudden, invisible bursts that left no trace of their passing.
In the midst of it all, solitary and ignored atop the small hillock that overlooked the homeland of the Elves, the wondrous tree they called the Ellcrys continued its slow, inevitable march toward death. The long journey had begun to take its toll. The perfect beauty that had marked the Ellcrys in health was gone, the perfect symmetry of her form marred and broken. Silver bark peeled away from trunk and limbs, black and rotting, hanging in strips like tattered skin. Blood–red leaves curled tight with wilt, a scattering of those that had already fallen dotting the earth beneath, dried and withered husks rustling with the wind. Like some weathered scarecrow set upon a pole above the fields, she stood stark and skeletal against the night horizon.
Allanon, Wil Ohmsford, and Amberle stared up at her wordlessly from the base of the rise, cowled faces lifted against the screen of moonlight. For a long time they were still, motionless save for the ripple of cloth garments in the light breezes, silent. When Amberle finally spoke, her whisper filled the quiet with deep, sudden poignancy.
«Oh, Allanon, she looks so sad.»
The Druid did not respond, his tall spare frame rigid beneath the robes, his face hidden within the shadow of the cowl. The smell of lilacs wafted past them, lingered momentarily, and was gone. After a moment, Amberle glanced over at the big man, arms folding tightly into her robe.
«Is she in pain?»
The movement of the Druid’s head was barely perceptible. «Some.»
«She is dying?»
«Her life is ending. Her time is almost gone.»
There was a long pause. «Can you do nothing for her?»
«What can be done for her must be done by you.» Allanon’s deep voice was a gentle murmur.
Amberle’s sigh was audible, a shiver of acceptance that passed through her slender body. The seconds slipped away Wil shuffled his feet wearily, waiting for the Elven girl to come to terms with herself. This was not easy for her. She had not expected even to be here tonight; neither of them had. They had expected that, with the adjournment of the Council, they would be allowed at long last to sleep. There had been no sleep since before their flight into the Valley of Rhenn and their unexpected reunion with Allanon. They were exhausted.
«She is sleeping,” Amberle whispered suddenly.
«She will wake for you,” the Druid responded.
She does not want this, Wil thought. She has never wanted this. She is not simply unwilling, she is frightened. She said so that first night in the little garden behind her home. Yet she has never said why.
Wil looked toward the summit of the rise. What was it about the Ellcrys that frightened her so?
«I am ready.»
She said it simply, her voice calm. Allanon was silent for a moment, then nodded, the cowl bending slightly with his response.
«Then go. We will wait for you here.»
She did not move at once, but stood quietly for a moment as if seeking something more from the Druid. But there was nothing more offered. Gathering her robes about her, she started forward, moving up the gentle slope, face lifted toward the still, ragged tree that waited at the top.
She did not look back.
She completed the climb in only moments and stood alone before the Ellcrys,. She stood, not yet within reach of the tree, but just beyond, her small form withdrawn into the concealing folds of the dark robe, her arms clenched tightly against her sides. From atop the rise, the Westland lay open to the sweep of the horizon, and she felt small and unprotected. The night breeze blew across her face, laced with the scents of the garden, and she breathed it deeply, steadying herself.
I need only a moment, she told herself. Just one moment.
But she was so afraid!
She still did not understand why this was, not even now, after all this time. She should be able to understand it; she should be able to control it: Yet she could not. That made it all the worse. The fear was unreasoning, senseless, blind. It was always there, lurking in the back of her mind like some beast of prey, slipping from its place of hiding whenever she gave thought to the Ellcrys. She fought against it, struggled determinedly, but it swept through her nonetheless, irrepressible, dark. She had been able to suppress it in Havenstead, for in Havenstead the cause was distant and past. But now, returned once more to Arborlon, standing less than a dozen feet away, remembering the touch of the Ellcrys…
She shuddered at the memory. It was the touch she really feared. Yet why should that be? No harm came from it, no injury. It served only to allow the Ellcrys to communicate her thoughts through images. But there was this sense of something more that had always come with the touch, ever since that first time the Ellcrys had spoken with her. Something.
