But for now, they must wait. For now, they must be patient. It would not be long. The Forbidding would weaken a little more each day, decaying as the Ellcrys slowly failed. Only one thing could prevent this—a rebirth.
The Dagda Mor nodded to himself. He knew well the history of the Ellcrys. Had he not been present when she had first seen life, when she had shut his brethren and himself from their world of light into their prison of dark? Had he not seen the nature of the sorcery that had defeated them—a sorcery so powerful that it could transcend even death? And he knew that this freedom could still be taken from him. If one of the Chosen were permitted to carry a seed of the tree to the source of her power, the Ellcrys might be reborn and the Forbidding invoked again. He knew this, and it was because of this knowledge that he was here now. He had by no means been certain that he could breach the wall of the Forbidding. It had been a dangerous gamble to expend so much power in the attempt, for, had he failed, he might have been left badly weakened. There were some behind the wall almost as powerful as he; they would have seized the opportunity to destroy him. But the gamble had been necessary. The Elves did not realize the extent of their danger yet. For the moment, they believed themselves safe. They did not think that any within the confines of the Forbidding possessed sufficient power to break through. They would discover their error too late. By then, he would have made certain that the Ellcrys could never be reborn nor the Forbidding restored.
It was for that reason that he had brought the other two.
He glanced about for them now. He found the Changeling immediately, his body undergoing a steady transition of colors and shapes as he practiced duplicating the life he found here—in the sky, a searching hawk and a small raven; on the earth, a groundhog, then a snake, a multi-legged insect with pincers, then on to something new, almost as quickly as the eye could follow. For the Changeling could be anything. Shut away in the darkness with only his brethren to model after, he had been denied the full use of his powers. There, they had been virtually wasted. But here, in this world, the possibilities were endless. All things, whether human or animal, fish or fowl, no matter their size, shape, color or abilities—he could be any of them. He could assimilate their characteristics perfectly. Even the Dagda Mor was not certain of the Changeling’s true appearance; the creature was so prone to adapt to other life forms that he spent virtually all of his time being something or someone other than what he really was.
It was an extraordinary gift, but it was possessed by a creature whose capacity for evil was very nearly as great as that of the Dagda Mor. The Changeling, too, was of Demon spawn. He was selfish and hateful. He enjoyed duplicity; he enjoyed hurting others. He had always been the enemy of the Elven people and their allies, detesting them for their pious concern for the welfare of the lesser life forms that inhabited their world. Lesser creatures meant nothing to the Changeling. They were weak, vulnerable; they were meant to be used by more powerful beings—beings such as himself. The Elves were no better than the creatures they sought to protect. They either could not or would not deceive as he did. All of them were trapped by what they were; they could be nothing else. He could be whatever he wished. He despised them all. The Changeling had no friends. He wanted none. None but the Dagda Mor, that was, for the Dagda Mor possessed the one thing he respected—power greater than his own. It was for that reason and for that reason alone that the Changeling had come to serve him.
It took the Dagda Mor several moments longer to locate the Reaper. He found it finally, not more than ten feet away, perfectly motionless, little more than a shadow in the pale light of early dawn, another bit of fading night hunched down against the gray of the Flats. Cloaked head to foot in robes the color of damp ashes, the Reaper was almost invisible, its face carefully concealed within the shadow of a broad hood. No one ever looked upon that face more than once. The Reaper permitted only its victims to see that much of it, and its victims were all dead.
If the Changeling were to be judged dangerous, then the Reaper was ten times more so. The Reaper was a killer. Killing was the sole function of its existence. It was a massive creature, heavily muscled, almost seven feet tall when it rose to its full height. Yet its size was misleading, for it was by no means ponderous. It moved with the ease and grace of the best Elven Hunter—smooth, fluid, quick, and noiseless. Once it had begun a hunt, it never gave up. Nothing it went after ever escaped. Even the Dagda Mor was wary of the Reaper, though the Reaper did not possess his power. He was wary because the Reaper served him out of whim and not out of fear or respect as did all the others. The Reaper feared nothing. It was a monster who cared nothing for life, even its own. It did not even kill because it enjoyed killing, though in truth it did enjoy killing. It killed because killing was instinctive. It killed because it found killing necessary. At times, within the darkness of the Forbidding, shut away from every form of life but its own brethren, it had been almost unmanageable. The Dagda Mor had been forced to give it lesser Demons to kill, keeping it under his control with a promise. Once they were free of the Forbidding—and they would, one day, be free—the Reaper would be given an entire world of creatures that it might prey upon. For as long as it wished, it might hunt them. In the end, it might kill them all.
The Changeling and the Reaper. The Dagda Mor had chosen well. One would be his eyes, the other his hands, eyes and hands that would go deep into the heart of the Elven people and end forever the chance that the Ellcrys might be reborn.
He glanced sharply to the east where the rim of the morning sun was rising rapidly above the crest of the Breakline. It was time to go. By tonight, they must be in Arborlon. This, too, he had planned with care. Time was precious to him; he had little to waste if he expected to catch the Elves napping. They must not know of his presence until it was too late to do anything about it.
With a quick motion to his companions, the Dagda Mor turned and slouched heavily toward the shelter of the Breakline. His black eyes lidded with pleasure as he tasted in his mind the success tonight would bring him. After tonight, the Elves would be doomed. After tonight, they would be forced to watch their beloved Ellcrys decay without even the faintest hope for any rebirth.
Indeed. Because after tonight, the Chosen would all be dead.
Several hundred yards from the mountains, deep within their concealing shadow, the Dagda Mor stopped. With both hands gripping the Staff of Power, he placed it upright, one end planted firmly in the dry, cracked earth. His head lowered slightly, and his hands tightened about the Staff. For long moments, he stood without moving. Behind him, the other two watched curiously, their dark forms huddled down, their eyes bits of yellow light.
Then abruptly, the Staff of Power began to glow faintly, a pale reddish color that silhouetted the hulking form of the Demon against the darkness. A moment later, the glow intensified sharply and began to pulsate. It ran from the Staff into the arms of the Dagda Mor, turning the greenish skin to blood. The Demon’s head came up and fire shot skyward from the Staff in a thin, brilliant arc that flew into the dawn like some frightened, living thing. It was gone in seconds. The glow that lit the Staff of Power flared once and died.
The Dagda Mor stepped back a pace, the Staff lowering. The earth about him was charred and black, and the damp air smelled of burning ash. The whole of the surrounding Flats had gone deathly still. The Demon seated himself, opaque eyes lidding contentedly. He did not move again, nor did the creatures with him. Together, they waited—half an hour, one hour, two. Still they waited.
And finally, down from the vast emptiness of the Northland, swept the monstrous, winged nightmare the Demon had summoned to carry them east to Arborlon.
“Now shall we see,” the Dagda Mor whispered.
III
The sun was barely above the horizon when Ander Elessedil stepped through the front door of his small house and moved up the walkway toward the iron gates that fronted the palace grounds. As second son of Eventine, King of the Elves, he could have had his rooms in t
he royal quarters; but years before, he had moved himself and his books to his present residence and thereby gained a privacy that he would have lacked within the palace. Or so he had thought at the time. Now he was less certain; with his older brother Arion receiving most of their father’s attention, Ander would probably have found himself largely undisturbed wherever he chose to live.
He sniffed the cleanness and early warmth of the morning air and smiled briefly. A good day for a ride. Both he and his favorite horse could use the exercise.
At forty, he was no longer a young man. His lean Elven face was lined at the corners of the narrow eyes and the furrow of his sharply angled brow; but his step was quick and easy, and his face was almost boyish when he smiled—though that was seldom these days.
As he neared the gates, he saw that Went, the old groundskeeper, was already at work, tending the flower beds with a hand hoe, his thin frame bent over his work. As he heard Ander approach, Went straightened slowly, one hand going to his back.
“Good morning, Prince. Nice day, eh?”
Ander nodded. “Splendid, Went. Back still bothering you?”
“Now and then.” The old man rubbed himself gingerly. “Age catching up to me, I guess. But I can still outwork the young ones they give me for help.”
Ander nodded once more, knowing the old man’s boast was simple truth. Went should have retired years ago, but he’d stubbornly refused to give up his duties.
As Ander made his way through the front gate, the sentries on watch nodded in greeting, and he nodded back. The guards and he had long since dispensed with formalities. Arion, as Crown Prince, might insist on being treated deferentially, but Ander’s position and expectations were somewhat less.
He followed the line of the roadway as it curved left around some decorative bushes toward the stables. Then a thunder of hooves and a shout broke the morning quiet. Ander leaped aside as Arion’s gray stallion plunged toward him, scattering gravel and rearing to a sudden halt.
Before the horse was fully at rest, Arion was off and facing his brother. Where Ander was short and dark, Arion was tall and fair, and his resemblance to their father at the same age was striking. That, together with the fact that he was a superb athlete and an accomplished weapons master, hunter and horseman made it inevitable that he should be Eventine’s pride and joy. There was also a compelling charisma about Arion—a charisma that Ander had always felt lacking within himself.
“Where bound, little brother?” Arion asked. As usual, when speaking to the younger Prince, his tone held a slight hint of mockery and contempt. “I wouldn’t bother our father, if I were you. He and I were up late working on some rather pressing matters of state. He was still sleeping when I looked in.”
“I was heading for the stables,” Ander replied quietly. “I had no intention of bothering anyone.”
Arion grinned, then turned back to his horse. With a hand on the pommel, he leapt lightly into the saddle, disregarding the stirrup. Then he turned to look down at his brother. “Well, I’m off to the Sarandanon for a few days. The people in the farming communities are all stirred up—some old fairy tale of doom overtaking us all. A lot of nonsense, but I’ve got to settle them down. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I’ll be back before father leaves for the Kershalt.” He grinned. “In the meantime, little brother, look after things, will you?”
He flipped the reins and was off in a rush that carried him through the gates and away. Ander swore softly to himself and turned back. He was no longer in a mood to go riding.
He should have been the one to accompany the King on the mission of state to the Kershalt. Strengthening the ties between the Trolls and the Elves was important. And while the groundwork had already been laid, it would still require diplomacy and careful negotiating. Arion was too impatient and reckless, with too little feeling for the needs and ideas of others. Ander might lack his brother’s physical skills—though he was capable enough—and he might lack as well Arion’s natural flair for leadership. But he possessed a gift for thorough, deliberate reasoning and the patience needed in diplomatic councils. On the few occasions when he had been called on, he’d demonstrated such abilities.
He shrugged. There was no sense in dwelling on it now, however. He had already appealed to Eventine to go on the journey and been turned down in favor of Arion. Arion would be King someday; he must have the practice at statescraft he needed while Eventine still lived to guide him. And maybe that made sense, Ander conceded.
Once, Arion and he had been close. That was when Aine was alive—Aine, the youngest of the Elessedil sons. But Aine had been killed in a hunting accident eleven years ago, and after that the bond of kinship had no longer been enough. Amberle, Aine’s young daughter, had turned to Ander for support, not to Arion, and the older brother’s jealousy had soon manifested itself in open contempt. Then when Amberle had forsaken her position as one of the Chosen, Arion had blamed his brother’s influence, and his contempt had degenerated into thinly masked hostility. Now Ander suspected their father’s mind was being poisoned against him. But there was nothing he could do about it.
Still deep in thought, he was passing through the gates down the pathway to his house when a shout brought him around.
“My Lord Prince, wait!”
Ander stared in surprise at the sight of a white-robed figure running toward him, one arm waving frantically. It was one of the Chosen, the redheaded one—Lauren, wasn’t that his name? It was unusual to see any of them outside the Gardens at this hour. He waited until the young Elf reached him, stumbling to a weary halt, face and arms streaked with sweat.
“My Lord Prince, I must see the King,” the Chosen gasped. “And they won’t let me through, not until later. Can you take me to him now?”
Ander hesitated. “The King is still asleep . . .”
“I must see him at once!” the other insisted. “Please! This cannot wait!”
There was desperation in his eyes and on his strained, white face. His voice was cracking with his attempt to emphasize the urgency that was driving him. Ander deliberated, wondering what could be that important. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Lauren, maybe I . . .”
“It’s not me, my Lord Prince. It’s the Ellcrys!”
Ander’s indecision vanished. He nodded and took Lauren’s arm. “Come with me.”
Together they hurried back through the gates toward the manor house, the sentries staring after them in surprise.
Gael, the young Elf who served as personal aide to Eventine Elessedil, shook his head firmly—yet within his dark morning robe his slim form shifted uneasily and his eyes refused to meet those of Ander. “I cannot waken the King, Prince Ander. He told me—very strongly—not to bother him for anything.”
“Or anyone, Gael?” Ander asked softly. “Not even for Arion?”
“Arion has left . . .” Gael began. Then he halted and looked even more unhappy.
“Precisely. But I am here. Are you really going to tell me that I cannot see my father?”
Gael did not answer. Then, as Ander started toward the King’s bedroom, the young Elf hurried past him. “I’ll wake him. Please wait here.”
It was several minutes before he came out again, his face still troubled, but he nodded toward Ander. “He will see you, Prince Ander. But for now, just you.”
The King was still in his bed as Ander entered, finishing the small glass of wine that Gael must have poured for him. He nodded at his son, then slipped gingerly from beneath the warmth of the bedcovers, his aging body shivering for an instant in the early morning coolness of the room. Gael, who had come in with Ander, was holding out a robe, and Eventine drew it about him, belting it snugly at the waist.
Despite his eighty-two years, Eventine Elessedil was in excellent health. His body was trim and hard. He was still able to ride, still quick and sure enough to be dangerous with a sword. His mind was sharp and alert; when the situation demanded it, as the situation frequently did, he was decisive. He still possess
ed that uncanny sense of balance, of proportion—the capability of seeing all sides of an issue, of judging each on its merits, and of choosing almost without exception that which would work the greatest benefit to himself and to those he ruled. It was a gift without which he could not have stayed King—would not even have stayed alive. It was a gift Ander had some reason to believe he had inherited, though it seemed worthless enough, in his present circumstances.
The King crossed to the handwoven curtains that draped the far wall, drew them aside, and pushed outward several of the floor-length windows that opened into the forest beyond. Light flooded the chamber, soft and sweet, and the smell of morning dew. Behind him, Gael was moving silently about, lighting the oil lamps to chase the last of the gloom from the corners of the chamber. Eventine hesitated before a window, staring fixedly for an instant at the reflection of his face in the misted glass. The eyes mirrored there were startlingly blue, hard and penetrating, the eyes of a man who has seen too many years and too much unpleasantness. He sighed and turned to face Ander.
“All right, Ander, what’s this all about? Gael said something about your bringing one of the Chosen with a message?”
“Yes, sir. He claims he has an urgent message from the Ellcrys.”
“A message from the tree?” Eventine frowned. “How long has it been since she gave a message to anyone—over seven hundred years? What was the message?”
“He wouldn’t tell it to me,” Ander replied. “He insists on delivering the message to you.”
Eventine nodded “Then deliver it he shall. Show him in, Gael.”
Gael bowed slightly and hurried out through the chamber doors, leaving them slightly ajar. A moment later a huge, shaggy dog pushed his way through and padded noiselessly to the King. It was Manx, his wolfhound, and he greeted the animal fondly, rubbing the grizzled head, stroking softly the rough coat along the back and flanks. Manx had been with him almost ten years, closer and more faithful than any man could have been.