The maps didn’t provide specific answers to any of this, but studying them helped him reason out what was needed.
He looked out the windows again into the rain. Preia would be back soon, and they would have dinner—their last before leaving for the Rhenn. Much of the army was encamped already in the valley. The High Council had declared a state of emergency, and the newly crowned king had taken charge. His power was absolute now, fixed and unchallenged. He had been crowned two weeks earlier, taken Preia as his wife, and adopted the two Ballindarroch orphans as his sons. With the matter of the succession to the Elven throne settled, he had turned his attention to the High Council Vree Erreden had been named First Minister and Preia a full council member. There had been some grumbling, but no opposition. He had requested permission to mobilize the Elven army and march east in support of the Dwarves. There had been more grumbling and a threat of opposition, but before the matter could be brought to a head it had been learned that the Northland army was approaching the Streleheim and there would be no need for the Elves to march anywhere.
Reflecting back on the matter, Jerle shook his head. He did not know what had become of the Dwarves. No one did. He had dispatched riders east to discover if the Dwarf army had been destroyed, which was what the rumors all reported, but no definitive word had been brought back. He was left to conclude that the Dwarves were in no position to help and the Elves must stand alone.
He shook his head wearily. The Elves had been left with no allies no magic, no Druids, and no real chance of winning this war, visions and prophecies and high hopes notwithstanding.
He looked down at the maps again, carefully configured topographies of the Rhenn and the land surrounding, as if the answer to the problem might lie there and perhaps he might have missed it. There was a time not so long ago when he would not have allowed himself to make so honest an assessment of the situation. There was a time when he would never have admitted that he could lose a battle to a stronger enemy. He had changed much since then. Losing Tay Trefenwyd and the Ballindarrochs, nearly losing Preia, becoming King of the Elves in less than ideal circumstances, and discovering that his view of himself was more than a little flawed had given him a different perspective. It was not a debilitating experience, but it was sobering. It was what happened when you grew up, he supposed. It was the rite of passage you endured when you left your boyhood behind for good.
He found himself studying the scars on the backs of his hands.
Little maps of their own, they traced the progress of his life. Warrior since birth, now King of the Elves, he had come a long way in a short time, and the scars provided a more accurate accounting of the cost of his journey than mere words. How many more scars would he incur in his battle with the Warlock Lord? Was he strong enough for this confrontation? Was he strong enough to survive?
He carried not only his own destiny into battle, but that of his people as well. How strong did he have to be for that?
The doors leading out onto the terrace flew open with a crash, blown back against the walls by the force of the wind, their curtains whipping wildly. Jerle Shannara reached for his broadsword as two black-cloaked figures surged into the room, rain-soaked and bent. Maps scattered from the table onto the floor, and lamps flickered and went out.
“Stay your hand, Elven King,” commanded the foremost of the intruders, while the second, smaller figure turned to close the doors behind them, shutting out the wind and rain once more.
It went quiet again in the room. Water dripped from the two onto the stone floor, puddling and staining. The king crouched guardedly, his sword halfway out of its sheath, his tall form coiled and ready, “Who are you?” he demanded.
The taller of the two pulled back his hood and revealed himself in the gray, uncertain light. Jerle Shannara took a long, deep breath. It was the Druid Bremen.
“I had given up on you,” he declared in a whisper, his emotions betraying him. “We all had.”
The old man’s smile was bitter. “You had reason. It has taken a long time to reach you, almost as long as it took to discover that it was you I sought.” He reached beneath his sodden cloak and withdrew a long, slim bundle wrapped in dark canvas. “I have brought you something.”
Jerle Shannara nodded. “I know.” He shoved his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard.
There was surprise in the Druid’s sharp eyes. He looked at his companion. “Allanon.” The boy pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing himself. Dark eyes burned into the Elven King’s, but the smooth, sharply angled face revealed nothing. “Remove your cloak. Wait outside the door. Ask that no one enter until this discussion is finished. Tell them the king commands it.”
The boy nodded, slid the cloak from his shoulders, carried it to a hanging rack, then slipped through the door and was gone.
Bremen and Jerle Shannara stood alone in the study, the maps still scattered on the floor about them, their eyes locked. “It has been a long time, Jerle.”
The king sighed. “I suppose it has. Five years? Longer perhaps?”
“Long enough that I had forgotten the lines on your face. Or perhaps you have simply grown older like the rest of us.” The smile came and went in the encroaching twilight. “Tell me what you know of my coming.”
Jerle shifted his feet to a less threatening stance, watching as the other removed his cloak and tossed it aside wearily. “I am told that you bring me a sword, one forged with magic, one that I must carry into battle against the Warlock Lord.” He hesitated. “Is this true? Have you brought such a weapon?”
The old man nodded. “I have.” He took the canvas-wrapped bundle and laid it carefully on the table. “But I wasn’t certain it was meant for you until I saw you standing crouched to strike me down, your weapon coming out of its sheath. In that moment, seeing you that way, I knew you were the one for whom the sword was intended. A vision of you holding the sword was shown to me at the Hadeshorn weeks ago, but I failed to recognize you. Did Tay Trefenwyd tell you of the vision?”
“He did. But he did not know that the sword was meant for me either. It was the locat Vree Erreden who advised me. He saw it in a vision of his own, saw me holding the sword, a sword with an emblem emblazoned on the pommel, an emblem of a hand holding forth a burning torch. He told me it was the insignia of the Druids.”
“A locat?” Bremen shook his head. “I would have thought it would be Tay who...”
“No. Tay Trefenwyd is dead, killed in the Breakline weeks ago.” The Elven King’s voice was quick and hard, and the words tumbled out. “I was with him. We had gone to recover the Black Elfstone, as you had charged us. We found the Stone, but the creatures of the Warlock Lord found us. There were but five of us and a hundred of them. There were Skull Bearers. Tay knew we were doomed. His own magic was gone, used up in his struggle to gain possession of the Elfstone, so he...”
Words failed the king, and he could feel the tears spring to his eyes. His throat tightened, and he could not speak.
“He used the Black Elfstone, and it destroyed him,” the old man finished, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. “Even though I warned him. Even though he knew what would happen.” The worn, aged hands clasped tightly. “Because he had to. Because he could do no less.”
They stood mute before each other, eyes averted. Then Jerle bent to retrieve the scattered maps, picking them up and stacking them back on the table next to the canvas bundle. The old man watched him for a moment, then bent to help. When the maps were all in place again, the old man took the king’s hands in his own.