The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

Now everyone was looking at the King. “Old tales of an older time,” Arissen Belloruus declared dismissively. “We cannot rely on such tales, Ordanna Frae. You, of all people, should know that.”


“What I know,” said the other, turning slightly toward him, “is that the tales have more than one source. We should not dismiss out of hand the possibility that they reveal an important truth. Much of our lore comes to us in the form of old stories and legends written down in private letters.

These are not necessarily the writer’s invention alone.”

“Nevertheless, it would be foolish and reckless to act on what these messengers tell us without further proof,” interjected Basselin, leaning forward suddenly in his seat. “We have no way of testing the truth of their stories. They may believe what they are saying, but they may also be hiding something from us.”

There was a muttering of agreement from a few of the other Council members, and the King pointed suddenly at Angel. “You say you are here to help us find the Loden Elfstone. How do you propose to do that? Do you know something of its location? Does the Word give you insights that we lack?”

Angel hesitated, and it was Ailie who answered. “The insights you require are to be found among your own people, High Lord. They are to be found among the Chosen.”

Arissen Belloruus flushed a dark red, and for a moment Angel thought that Ailie had gone too far. Again, this was nothing the tatterdemalion had spoken about to her before, so she wasn’t sure why her words were so disturbing to the King, but clearly they were.

“The young boy you sent away,” Ailie continued. “Kirisin.

He knows.”

Now the Council members were all turning toward the King, their muttered questions and exclamations tumbling over one another as they sought to make sense of what they were hearing. It wasn’t the tatterdemalion’s words that caused this response, Angel realized. The words, while startling, would not of themselves provoke. It was instead something in the way they were spoken, something in Ailie’s voice, that had broken through the wall of reticence that held the High Council in thrall to the King and set them free to question him.

“Be silent!” Arissen Belloruus roared suddenly, leaping to his feet. The members of the Council went still, and the King came forward a few steps on the dais toward Angel and Ailie, a menacing look on his strong features. “Kirisin Belloruus, the son of my cousin and his wife, the brother of Simralin, is a well-loved boy, a friend of my daughter, and a Chosen in service to the Ellcrys. He has indeed spoken to me of this, something I chose not to bring before the Council.”

He paused for effect. “And for good reason. He believes he knows something, but he cannot offer any proof to support his belief. He came to me with a story similar to the one you tell, messengers of the Word. He told me that the Ellcrys had asked him to find the Loden Elfstone and to place the tree within it. An old magic, apparently. Magic long since lost to us. But no one else heard this admonition. More to the point, the Ellcrys does not speak to anyone except in the time of her choosing. Kirisin could not explain why she had done so now. He was certain he had heard correctly, but he had nothing to offer in the way of proof. I did not believe him, nor did any of the other Chosen.”

His jaw tightened. “But I am King, and I know my duty. I told him that acting on his word alone, without other proof, was insufficient to persuade the High Council to his cause. I told him I would research the matter. Culph, who has served as our historian for years, was dispatched in an effort to find in the Elven histories the answers to the questions Kirisin posed. He found nothing. There was barely any mention of the Elfstones. All that is magic, all the talismans that were once so vital to our people, belong to the past.

We know this. No one who has lived in the last two thousand years has seen an Elfstone. Or if they have, they have kept it to themselves because there is nothing of consequence written about any of it. What we have are private journals of the sort kept by our minister of public works.” He nodded toward Ordanna Frae. “Some of those entries are an accurate recording and some are not. Some are simply wishful thinking. What helps us determine which is which is whether or not there is confirmation of these entries anywhere in our official histories.”

Again he paused. “In this case, there is none.”

“My Lord,” Basselin interrupted quickly. “May I speak?”