The Elfstones of Shannara Read Online Free Page A

to a weary halt, face and arms streaked with sweat.
    â€œMy 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 . . .”
    â€œI 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 . . .”
    â€œIt’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.
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    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.”
    â€œOr anyone, Gael?” Ander asked softly. “Not even for Arion?”
    â€œArion has left . . .” Gael began. Then he halted and looked even more unhappy.
    â€œPrecisely. 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 possessed 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.
    â€œAll right, Ander, what’s this all about? Gael said something about your bringing one of the Chosen with a message?”
    â€œYes, sir. He claims he has an urgent message from the