Allardon Elessedil was coughing blood. “Call a scribe,” he gasped. “Do it now.”
One was found almost at once, a young man, barely grown, his face white and his eyes frightened as he knelt next to the king.
“Move everyone back but this boy, the Druid, and two witnesses,” Allardon Elessedil ordered.
“High Lord, I cannot. . . ,” a Captain of the Home Guard began softly, but the King motioned him away.
When an area had been cleared around them, the Elven King nodded to the scribe. “Copy down what I say,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on Walker as he spoke. “Everything.”
Carefully, detail by detail, he repeated the agreement that he had reached with the Druid moments earlier. A voyage was to be undertaken with Walker as its leader. The purpose of the voyage was to follow the route described on a map carried by the Druid, a copy of which was held by the King’s scribe at the palace. A search for the missing blue Elfstones was to be undertaken. And on and on. Slowly, painstakingly, he repeated it all, including the bargain struck regarding the recovery of magic. A Healer appeared and began work on the injury, but the King kept talking, grimacing through his pain, his breathing raspy and thick and his eyes blinking as if he was fighting to see.
“There,” he said, when he was finished. “They have killed me for nothing. See this through, Walker. Promise me.”
“He’s bleeding to death,” the Healer announced. “I have to take him to my surgery and remove the arrow at once.”
Walker lifted the Elven King as if he weighed nothing, cradling him in the crook of his good left arm and with the stump of his right, and carried him from the plains. All the while, he talked to him, telling him to stay strong, not to give up, to fight for his life, for it had worth and meaning beyond what he knew. Surrounded by Home Guard, he bore the King as he might a sleeping child, holding him gently within his arms, head cushioned against his shoulder.
Several times, the King spoke, but the words were so soft that only Walker could hear them. Each time the Druid replied firmly, “You have my promise. Rest, now.”
But sometimes even a Druid’s exhortations are not enough. By the time they reached the surgery, Allardon Elessedil was dead.
SEVEN
It took Walker until well after noon to secure a copy of the young scribe’s notes and carry it to Ebben Bonner, who was First Minister of the Elven High Council and nominal leader of the Elves pending the formal succession of Allardon Elessedil’s eldest son. There, in an extraordinary concession to the circumstances surrounding the King’s death, the First Minister approved Walker’s request to depart for Bracken Clell so that he might act on the terms of the dead King’s agreement. Walker successfully argued that there was reason to believe that the mindaltered Elves who were behind the death of Allardon Elessedil had been sent by someone intent on preventing an expedition to retrace the route detailed on the castaway’s map. It was entirely too coincidental that the attack had come just as King and Druid had agreed to mount such an expedition, especially since it was their first meeting in twentythree years. Certainly the King had believed it was more than coincidence or he would not have spent the last moments of his life dictating instructions for carrying out the expedition to his scribe. Clearly, someone had found out about the map and the treasure it revealed. It took a leap of faith to accept that there was a connection between the King’s death and the map’s appearance, but it would be better to make that leap than do nothing. Walker was concerned that if the King’s enemies were bold enough to strike in the Elven capital city, they would be equally quick to strike in Bracken Clell. The castaway who was under care in the healing center would be at great risk. Perhaps Walker could still reach him in time. Perhaps he could discover yet if he was Kael Elessedil.
He recruited Hunter Predd and Obsidian for the journey. The Wing Rider was anxious to depart the chaos unfolding around him and frankly curious to know more about where this business of the castaway and the map was leading. With barely a word of encouragement from Walker or question of his own, he had Obsidian saddled and ready for flight. They rose into the afternoon sun while the people of Arborlon were still trying to come to terms with the news of their King’s death. Some were just learning, returned from journeys of their own or preoccupied with the demands and difficulties of their own lives. Some still didn’t believe it was true. Walker wasn’t sure what he believed. The suddenness of the King’s death was shocking. Walker was no less affected than the Elves. To not have seen or spoken to the man in so many years and then to watch him die, on their first morning, was difficult to accept. It was bad enough that he had been hostile toward the King in their final meeting and almost intolerable that he had all but wished him dead. He did not feel guilt for his behavior, but he did feel shame.