holding back his arm.
«Peace, Ander Elessedil.» The voice was soft but commanding. «I am no enemy of yours.»
The shadowy form was that of a man, Ander saw now, a tall man, standing well over seven feet. Black robes were wrapped tightly about his spare, lean frame, and the hood of his traveling cloak was pulled close about his head so that nothing of his face could be seen save for narrow eyes that shone like a cat’s.
«Who are you?» the Elven Prince managed finally.
The other’s hands lifted and drew back the folds of the hood to reveal the face within. It was craggy and lined, shadowed by a short, black beard that framed a wide, unsmiling mouth and by hair cut shoulder–length. The cat’s eyes, piercing and dark, stared out from beneath heavy brows knit fiercely above a long, flat nose. Those eyes stared into Ander’s, and the Elven Prince found that he could not look away.
«Your father would know me,” the big man whispered. «I am Allanon.»
Ander stiffened, his face incredulous. «Allanon?» His head shook slowly. «But… but Allanon is dead!»
There was sarcasm in the deep voice, and the eyes glinted once more. «Do I appear to you to be dead, Elven Prince?»
«No… no, I can see…» Ander’s faltered. «But it has been more than fifty years…»
He trailed off as the memories of his father’s stories came back to him: the search for the Sword of Shannara; the rescue of Eventine from the camp of the enemy armies; the battle at Tyrsis; the defeat of the Warlock Lord at the hands of the little Valeman, Shea Ohmsford. Through it all, Allanon had been there, lending to the beleaguered peoples of the Four Lands his strength and wisdom. When it was finished and the Warlock Lord destroyed, Allanon had disappeared entirely. Shea Ohmsford, it was said, had been the last to see him. There had been rumors afterward that Allanon had come to the Four Lands at other times, in other places. But he had not come to the Westland and the Elves. None of them had ever expected to see him again. Still, where the Druid was concerned, his father had often told him, one soon learned to expect the unexpected. Wanderer, historian, philosopher and mystic, guardian of the races, the last of the ancient Druids, the wise men of the new world — Allanon was said to have been all of these.
But was this truly Allanon? The question whispered in Ander’s mind.
The big man stepped close once more. «Look closely at me, Elven Prince,” he commanded. «You will see that I speak the truth.»
Ander stared at the dark face, stared deep into the glittering black eyes, and suddenly the doubts were gone. There was no longer any question in his mind. The man who stood before him was Allanon.
«I want you to take me to see your father.» Allanon was speaking again, his voice low and guarded. «Choose a path little traveled. I wish to keep my coming a secret. Quickly now, before the sentries come.»
Ander did not stop to argue. With the Druid following as closely as his own shadow, he slipped past the Gardens of Life and hurried on toward the city.
Minutes later, they crouched within a gathering of evergreens at one end of the palace grounds where a small side gate stood chained and locked. Ander drew a ring of keys from his pocket and fitted one into the lock. It turned with a sharp snick and the lock opened. In seconds, they were inside.
Ordinarily the grounds would have been guarded only by the gate watch. But earlier in the day, following the discovery of the murdered Chosen, the body of Went had been found under a bush at the edge of the south gardens, his neck broken. The manner of his death was wholly different from that of the Chosen, so as yet there was no reason to believe there was any connection. Still, this latest killing was too close to the King to suit the Home Guard. Additional security had been moved onto the grounds. Dardan and Rhoe, the King’s personal guards, had taken up watch at the King’s door.
Ander would not have believed it possible for anyone to reach the manor house from the exterior walls without being seen by the sentries. But somehow, with the Druid in the lead, they managed to pass without challenge. Allanon seemed little more than another of the night’s shadows, moving soundlessly, always keeping Ander close beside him, until at last they reached the floor–length windows that looked in upon the King’s study. There they paused momentarily while the Druid listened at the curtained window. Then Allanon gripped the iron entry latch and turned it. The window–doors swung silently open and the Druid and Elven Prince stepped inside.
From a reading table still littered with histories, Eventine Elessedil rose, staring in disbelief, first at his son and then at the man who followed him in.
«Allanon!» he whispered.
The Druid secured the window–doors, drew the curtains carefully back in place, then turned into the candlelight.
«After all these years.» Eventine shook his head wonderingly and stepped out from behind the table. Then he saw clearly the big man’s face and disbelief turned to astonishment. «Allanon! You haven’t aged! You… haven’t changed since…» He choked on the words. «How…?»
«I am who I always was,” the Druid cut him short. «That is enough to know, King of the Elves.»
Eventine nodded wordlessly, still dazed by the other’s unexpected appearance. Slowly he moved back to the reading table, and the two men took up seats across from one another. Ander stood where he was for an instant, uncertain whether to stay or go.
«Sit with us, Elven Prince.» Allanon indicated a third chair.
Ander sat down quickly, grateful to be included, anxious to hear what would be said.
«You know what has happened?» The King addressed Allanon.
The Druid nodded. «That is why I have come. I sensed a breach in the Forbidding. Something imprisoned there has crossed over into this world, something whose power is very great indeed. It was the appearance of this creature…»
There was the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway beyond the study door, and the Druid was on his feet instantly. Then he paused, his face calm, and he looked back at the King.
«No one is to know that I am here.»
Eventine did not question this. He simply nodded, rose from the chair, walked quickly to the door, and opened it. Manx sat there on his haunches, his tail wagging slowly, his grizzled muzzle raised toward his master. Eventine walked out into the hallway and found Gael approaching with a tray of tea. The King smiled and took it from him.
«I want you to go home now and get some sleep,” he ordered. When Gael tried to object, he quickly shook his head. «No arguments. We have a lot to do in the morning. Go home. I’ll be all right. Ask Dardan and Rhoe to keep watch until I retire. I wish to see no one.»
He turned abruptly and re–entered the study, closing the door firmly behind him: Manx had wandered in, sniffed questioningly the stranger he found seated at the reading table, then, apparently satisfied, had dropped down next to the stone fireplace beside them, his muzzle resting comfortably on his paws, his brown eyes closing contentedly. Eventine sat down again.
«Was it this creature, then, that killed the Chosen?» he asked, picking up the conversation.
The Druid nodded. «I believe it to be so. I sensed the danger to the Chosen and came as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, unfortunately, to save them.»
Eventine smiled sadly. «The fault lies with me, I’m afraid. I left them unprotected, even after I was told the Forbidding had begun to fail. But perhaps it makes no difference. Even had they lived, I am not certain the Chosen would have been able to save the Ellcrys. Nothing of what she showed them of the location of the Bloodfire is recognizable. Not even the name she gave them — Safehold. Do you recognize it?»
Allanon shook his head no.
«Our, records tell us nothing of Safehold — neither those of my predecessors who ruled nor those of the Chosen,” the King continued. «I am faced with an impossible situation. The Ellcrys is dying. In order to save her, one of the Chosen in service to her now must carry her seed to the Bloodfire, immerse it in the flames and then return it to the earth so that a rebirth might be possible.»
«I am familiar with the history,” the Druid interjected.
The King flushed. The anger and frustration he had held inside was working its way to the fore.
«Then consider this. We do not know the location of the Bloodfire. We have no record of the name Safehold. And now the Chosen are all dead. We have no one to bear the Ellcrys seed. The outcome of all this seems quite inevitable. The Ellcrys will die, the Forbidding will crumble, the evil locked within will be free once more upon the
