appears to be called Safehold.»
Safehold? Ander searched his memory, but the name meant nothing to him.
Eventine glanced at Ander and shook his head. He rose to his feet, walked several paces from the table, then stopped abruptly. He turned back to Lauren. «Is there nothing more that you were told? No hints — bits, that might not seem to have any meaning?»
«Nothing. That was all.»
The King nodded slowly to the young Elf. «Very well, Lauren. You were right in insisting I be told at once. Now, will you wait outside for a little while?»
When the door had closed behind the Chosen, Eventine walked back to his chair and lowered himself slowly. His face seemed to have aged terribly and his movements were those of an old, old man. Manx moved over in front of him, and the grizzled face stared upward sympathetically. Eventine sighed and moved his hand tiredly to the dog’s head.
«Have I lived too long?» he muttered. «If the Ellcrys dies, how can I protect my people from what will happen then? I am their King; the responsibility for their protection is mine. I have always accepted that. Yet for the first time in my life, I wish it were otherwise…»
He trailed off reluctantly, then turned to look at Ander. «Well, we must do what we can. With Arion gone to the Sarandanon, I will need your help.» Ander flushed at the unintended rebuke. «Go with Lauren and question the Chosen carefully. See if there is anything more that may be learned. Anything. I will have the old histories move up from the vaults and examine them.
«Do you think there might be something there — or in the old world maps?» Ander asked doubtfully.
«No. You have read them more recently than I, but I can remember nothing. Still, what else can we do? If we are to have any chance at all of finding the Bloodfire, we must have more than what Lauren has been able to tell us.»
He nodded in dismissal. Ander went out to join Lauren, to return with him to the tree where the other Chosen would be waiting. There he would attempt to discover something more of the mysterious Safehold. It seemed a hopeless effort. But, as his father had said, what else could they do?
Chapter Four
The summer day ended with a brilliant burst of red and lavender that flooded the whole of the western skyline. For long, beautiful minutes, the sun seemed to hang at the crest of the Breakline, lighting the roof of the Westland forest and weaving shadows that draped the wooded earth with still, soft bands of darkness. The air cooled slowly, the midday heat fading now as an evening breeze rippled and sighed through the great, silent trees. Then daylight slipped into dusk, and night washed the color from the sky.
The people of the Even city of Arborlon drifted wearily toward their homes.
Within the Gardens of Life, Ander Elessedil stared upward at the Ellcrys. Seen now against the evening light, the great tree seemed normal, deceptively unchanged. Yet before the sun had set, traces of the sickness that was destroying her had been plainly evident.
The disease was spreading rapidly. On a scattering of smaller limbs, rot had begun to eat away at the silver–white bark. Broad clusters of leaves hung limp with wilt, curling at the tips, the deep red color turned black. The Chosen had scrubbed the bark carefully with herbal salves and plucked the damaged leaves, hoping against reason that the disease could be contained, knowing all the while that it could not. Ander had seen the truth reflected in their eyes. They could not heal the Ellcrys. No one could. She was dying, and there was nothing that anyone could do to prevent it.
He sighed and turned away, not sure why he had made this last visit of the day to the Gardens. The Chosen had returned to their compound an hour earlier, tired and discouraged, silent in their sense of futility. But he had come anyway, drawn by an unreasoning hope that somehow the answers they so desperately needed could be found here. He had not found those answers, of course, and with the coming of nightfall there was little sense in staying longer.
As he passed out of the Gardens, he could feel the sentries of the Black Watch staring after him. They remained unaware of the damage to the tree, but they could sense that something was wrong. The activities of the Chosen had told them that much. Word would soon be spreading, he thought — rumors growing. Soon the people would have to be told.
But for the moment, at least, all was quiet. Lights were already going out and many windows were darkened as the people pre prepared for sleep. He envied them. There was little chance that he would. sleep that night — he or the King.
He sighed again, wishing that there was something he could do for his father. Eventine had always been so sure of himself, had always been so supremely confident that a solution could be found to any problem. But now, in the two visits Ander had made to report his lack of progress, the old King had seemed lost somewhere within himself. He had tried halfheartedly to mask it from his son, but it was obvious that he was looking with despair on the ending of everything he had worked all his life to accomplish. Here, at last, was a challenge that was beyond all his powers. With barely a word to his son, he had sent him back to continue aiding the Chosen in any way he could.
It had proved a futile task. Ander had questioned each of them carefully, then assembled them and probed their collective memory, searching for any small piece of information that might lead to Safehold. But he had learned nothing more than what he already knew.
A search of the carefully preserved records of their Order had yielded nothing, either. He had studied histories that dated back centuries, checking and rechecking There were repeated references to the sacred Bloodfire, the life source of their world and all its living things. But nowhere was there even the briefest mention of the. mysterious place called Safehold.
Nor had the Ellcrys given them any further assistance in their search. At Ander’s suggestion, the Chosen had gone back to her again. They had gone to her over and over, one by one and all together, begging her to give them something more to further their understanding of her images. But she would not speak to them. She remained silent.
As he came near the compound of the Chosen, he saw that all the lights were out. Routine had apparently taken over and they must have returned to their sleeping quarters at their usual time, shortly after finishing their evening meal. He hoped they would find some relief in sleep. Maybe they would. Sometimes hopelessness and despair were even more fatiguing than physical labor, and they had experienced little else during the long day.
He was moving quietly past their compound, following a pathway that led toward the manor house to make one final report to his father, when a dark shadow moved from under a low tree beside the path.
«My Lord Prince?»
«Lauren?» he asked. Then, as the figure moved closer, he saw that it was indeed the young Elf. «Why aren’t you asleep?»
«I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I… I saw you go up to the Gardens and I hoped that you’d come back this way. Prince Ander, can I speak to you?»
«You are speaking to me, Lauren,” Ander reminded him. But his brief attempt at amusement did nothing to lighten the seriousness of the other’s expression. «Have you remembered something?»
«Perhaps. Not about what the Ellcrys told us, but something I think you should know. Can I walk with you a ways?»
Ander nodded. They turned back along Ander’s chosen path, moving slowly away from the compound.
«I feel as if I ought to be the one to solve this problem,” Lauren began after a moment. «Maybe… it’s because the Ellcrys spoke first to me; that makes finding Safehold seem almost my personal obligation. I know that’s probably giving too much importance to myself, but it’s the way I feel, nevertheless. In any case, I don’t want to overlook anything.» He glanced at the Prince. «Do you understand what I am trying to say?»
«I think so. Have we overlooked something, then?»
«Well, something has occurred to me. I thought I should mention it to somebody»
Ander stopped and looked at the young Elf.
