At the base of the valley, close enough to see the waters of the Hadeshorn clearly, she stopped for a final survey of her surroundings. She was still alone, the valley empty of life, the air crisp and cool and very still. Satisfied that she was safe from interruptions, she continued on until she was standing at the very edge of the lake.
She looked out across a glistening expanse that was as still as stone.
I am here. Speak to me.
The waters sensed her presence and stirred ever so slightly.
She conjured a form of magic she had mastered long ago and sent it flowing through the black staff. When the staff was ablaze with light, she dipped one end into the Hadeshorn. Instantly the waters began to churn, the movement increasing, growing in power until there were waves crashing and spray flying everywhere. She held her ground when the waters came at her as if to attack. She ignored the spray that coated her face and the pulsing of the greenish light, which had grown in force.
But when she heard the voices lift out of the ether in wails and cries that chilled her to the bone, she began to shiver violently. It felt as if her skin were being scraped from her body, and she knew what it meant. The dead were coming to see who had disturbed them, and they were not happy. The cacophony of sound grew until it filled the valley and threatened to bury her. She could pick out individual voices, ones she thought she knew, even though she could not put names to them. The connection of living and dead was there, and the past was brought back into the present as memories were torn from the places in her mind where she kept them hidden.
Then the waters heaved wildly, and the dead surfaced. They burst from the waters in droves, thousands of them, rising into the still dark night, white and ethereal, drained of life and substance, re-formed as diaphanous shades, their voices joined in an endless scream.
She was close to breaking at that point, all her preparations and the steeling of her resolve shattered and vanished, and she felt naked and exposed. Everything about her was revealed in an instant and nothing left hidden. The dead knew her. The dead could see all she was and all she ever would be, and it was terrifying.
“Someone speak to me!” she screamed, trying to hold on, wanting this to be over.
Her words had reached compliant ears, and the spirits of the dead scattered like moths caught in a sudden wind, their wails following after them, switching like lizard tails. In the wake of their passing, the waters of the Hadeshorn thrashed with new fury, and a black form heaved upward from their center, a giant rising from the depths, growing in size until it dwarfed Khyber ten times over.
Silence returned, undisturbed save for traces of the wailings and the hissing of spray. The black figure, huge and forbidding, stood upon the waters as if their surface somehow provided it with solid footing.
–Do you know me–
She did. Instinctively, immediately, and unquestionably.
“You are Allanon,” she said.
7
The Shade of Allanon glided closer across the hissing, roiling waters, black robes pulled close, hood covering everything but his terrible face. In life Allanon was said to have been frightening, a man with a dark temper and a darker history who had no hesitation about using either to intimidate. That he could reinforce his reputation with a command of magic unequaled in the annals of the Druid Histories cloaked him with the trappings of legend.
To Khyber Elessedil he seemed no less intimidating in death than the stories reported he had been in life.
–Speak to me, Ard Rhys–
So he knew her. Khyber felt exposed and vulnerable before him, helpless to protect herself even though there was no reason to believe she needed to. The spirits of the dead were said to reflect the substance of their lives, and no one had been more of a presence in life than this man. Strong features shaded by a short black beard and eyes that seemed to look right through you—there was nothing of weakness apparent in Allanon, nothing to suggest that he would ever equivocate or doubt himself. Even now, when she compared him with the other more transparent and ephemeral spirits, he seemed whole and unchanged.
“I would speak with you about the missing Elfstones, Allanon,” she managed finally.
–Speak to me then–
“Do you know, from there in the dark world into which you have passed, where in this world of light the Elfstones may be found?”
–Where they have been for countless centuries–
“But where exactly?”
–Hidden. Shrouded from all eyes. Ask me something else–
“There is a diary, found by one of our order, that tells of a theft of all the Elfstones but the seeking-Stones, back in the time of Faerie. A girl wrote it. It was her Darkling lover who stole the talismans from the Elves. What do you know of this?”
–Nothing–
He had gone motionless now, hanging there in the darkness, illuminated by the strange light that emanated from the depths of the Hadeshorn. When he spoke, his voice did not reflect the weakness of those spirits who wailed and bemoaned their fate. Instead it was strong and hard-edged.
“We would go in search of these Elfstones for the Druid order so they could be used in our efforts to secure a lasting peace in the Four Lands. They would be used to protect the Races from the creatures of the Void, from the demons that escaped the initial creation of the Forbidding.”
The shade’s hiss seemed to reflect the sounds of the waters over which it hovered, its breath exhaling in a cloud of steam.
–Foolish talk, Ard Rhys. There is no lasting peace. There is no protection you can offer to those who will not help themselves. All our struggles do is hold back a tide that will finally and inevitably sweep us away–
She felt her heart sink. Allanon’s dark worldview did not allow for hope. He saw the end as inevitable and the battle of good and evil as nothing but a holding action. He might not even accept that the struggle was worth the effort. Yet even so, even though his words were flat and empty of emotion, she could sense something more behind them.
“That may be,” she said finally. “But does that mean we should quit trying? Should we give in?”
–Answer your own question, Ard Rhys. Should you?–
“I don’t think so.”
–But you are not certain–
“I am certain. I won’t quit. The members of my Druid order will not quit. Have you, in death, decided we should? Do you tell us we must follow your lead?”
–I tell you nothing. The dead can only question or suggest–
“Then I say again we do not quit. Nor should you, if that is what you intend. Instead, you should help us.”
–You must help yourself, Ard Rhys. You are more able than I–
There was a challenge in his words, a veiled threat. But she sensed that he was still waiting, hoping for something more. Her mind raced, trying to discover what it was.
“I am willing to do that,” she answered. “To do whatever is necessary. I would begin my search, but I don’t know where to start. I have a story and the name of a girl and nothing more. I don’t even know if any of what is written is real. The tone suggests it is, but there are questions anyway. There cannot help but be questions.” She paused. “Do you know of this girl? Aleia Omarosian—that is her name. She is the one who wrote the diary. Do you know her?”
For the first time, the shade of Allanon did not answer right away.
–I know something of her–