The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  So it is for me. I was the Ilse Witch for years, and even though I have been Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order and demonstrated a careful and well-intentioned stewardship of my office and tried my level best to act as caretaker to all the peoples of the Four Lands, I am condemned by too many to be forever what I once was. No one can alter how they are perceived or regarded in the minds of those who doubt and fear. I have learned this. I have seen the results within my own Druid family, and I must accept that the rebellion of those Druids who wished me gone was entirely my own fault.

  Why do I say this? I presumed too much. I believed I could bring everyone back to me with friendship and caring. I believed I could be forgiven. I was wrong. From some journeys, there can be no return.

  Enough. I go on too long. I wanted to put these thoughts down somewhere so that perhaps one day my ancestors might read them and convey my thoughts to others. By then, all those alive now will be gone, and I will be a memory. A new beginning might be possible. Perhaps this, at least, will survive me and serve as an explanation for how I lived my life.

  But there is another reason for this writing, as well.

  I was saved from the Forbidding by my nephew, Penderrin Ohmsford, the son of my brother and only sibling, Bek, with the aid of a black staff procured from a sentient tree called the tanequil. Pen traveled to find this tree and communicated his need to help me. He persuaded the tanequil to give him a branch on which he then formed the symbols that would enable the staff to find me and bring me back. The staff was called a darkwand, and it responded only to Pen. It cost him two of his fingers and an unforgettable memory of his defiling. It took courage and perseverance beyond anything I have ever known for Pen to endure this and to come for me and bring me back, and I owe him my life and whatever future remains to me.

  You have already read of my final encounter with Shadea a’Ru and her rebel companions. But there was another resolution needed to bring this terrible episode to an end. By trapping me through use of triagenel magic and sending me into the Forbidding, the rebel Druids allowed one of the prison’s resident demons to be sent to the Four Lands in my place. A switching of bodies is always required for triagenel magic to work. Thus a creature called the Moric was dispatched out of the Forbidding and into my old world to take my place. This demon presented a huge threat, and it needed to be sent back. For this to happen, the darkwand was employed once more.

  It was Penderrin who summoned the necessary magic, and with his father and mother and a handful of others went to a meeting with the Moric, which was disguised as the Federation Prime Minister, Sen Dunsidan. But they knew him for what he was, and they convinced him the darkwand was a gift of magic. Because there was a lure to it that few could resist, the Moric seized the staff and was transported, along with it, back into the Forbidding. But this time there was no way for the demon to come out again, since the staff would not answer to anyone who was not an Ohmsford. So while the staff would transport the Moric back into the Forbidding at Penderrin Ohmsford’s bidding, it would not allow the demon a chance for another escape.

  Yet I believe that if it still exists, it possesses the magic with which it was imbued. While Penderrin asked it to go dark for the demon, the residual magic will still respond to him or any Ohmsford descendant who tries to wield it. It is in the nature of how such magic works, from the Sword of Shannara on down. When such a magic is given, a blood bond is formed—and once formed will serve any who carry the blood of the gifted. But I said nothing to my nephew of this. Pen will never return to the Forbidding, and nor will I. But one can never see the future clearly, and so I have determined to write down these words so that the truth of the darkwand’s magic will not be lost entirely. I cannot envision how or even if this will ever prove useful, but I have done what I think I must.

  As a precaution, I write this in ink that will only appear to another of my blood—to an Ohmsford and no other. It is our heritage and is of use to no one else. If it is lost, that is fate’s decision. If it is needed, these words will be uncovered and the truth revealed.

  In closing, I have discovered something about myself. Perhaps as a result of the time I spent within the Forbidding, or as a consequence of the extreme expenditure of magic I was required to suffer, my precognitive abilities have become greatly enhanced. And what were once small visions have now become so strong that they threaten my sanity. One showed my return to the Forbidding—a prospect that terrifies me.

  I try my best to shut out these visions, yet memories of my time as the Ilse Witch haunt me regularly. My decision to seek relief by serving as an aeriad for Mother Tanequil may help prevent any further visions. I am hopeful. I am in need of peace. Penderrin will fly me to where Mother Tanequil roots, and I will seek entry into her order. I will offer to replace the girl Pen loved—who gave herself for me—thus repaying them both. He does not know this, yet. He will discover the truth when I am gone.

  And now I am done, and this writing is complete.

  Peace and better times await me, and I go to find them,

  Grianne Ohmsford

  Tarsha was stunned. At first she thought she must have read it wrong, so she went back and read it a second time. But she had not been mistaken.

  Grianne Ohmsford had meant this for her—even without knowing who she might be or when she might read it. But Tarsha had been mistaken about where the black staff could be found. It wasn’t somewhere in the Four Lands. It was back inside the Forbidding where she couldn’t get at it, and it had been there for hundreds of years.

  Only Grianne—along with a handful of those others who were dead and gone—would ever have known this. Drisker hadn’t known; perhaps he hadn’t even known there was a black staff in the first place. But what mattered was that, like herself, he didn’t know it was inside the Forbidding.

  Which prompted an interesting question. What difference did it make to Drisker’s situation? She had hoped the staff might offer him a means of escape. But if it only responded to one who possessed Ohmsford blood, how would it help him even if he found and recovered it?

  And if the staff was still inside the Forbidding and Grianne Ohmsford knew about it, why hadn’t she recovered it herself? Why had she asked for Drisker’s help? Why had she made the bargain with him to help him with his efforts in the Four Lands in exchange for helping to free her from the Forbidding?

  Why hadn’t she claimed the staff and made her escape?

  ELEVEN

  Belladrin Rish was young, reasonably attractive, and very, very clever—and she knew how to play to these strengths. You could have asked Ketter Vause, had he still been alive, or Kol’Dre—even though he had not even known she was Skaar before she killed him—and they would have been forced to admit she possessed all of these attributes and had fooled them both right up to the end.

  In the wake of Ketter Vause’s death, she had reported his assassination to his guards and attendants and asked that the commanders of his army report to the Prime Minister’s quarters for an important briefing. She did this swiftly and efficiently, then saw to the removal of the bodies of the Prime Minister and his assassin, first swearing all who were involved in this effort to silence. No word of what had happened was to be leaked to anyone in the camp, no matter who or why, and violation of this command was to be considered treason.

  She had given no details. Explanations were never needed for those not in command.

  By force of personality and her recognized position as the Prime Minister’s personal assistant, she was able to turn aside any questions from those who aided her. Instead, they wrapped the dead and carried them away for burial, and pledged to do exactly as she had ordered.

  When they were gone, she took time to clean the blood off herself, discard her sleeping garb, and dress in fresh clothes for the confrontation ahead. And it would be a confrontation. Then she waited for the commanders of t
he Federation army to arrive while reflecting on what she had brought about and what she was expecting to do next.

  She was sorry about Kol’Dre, but he had sealed his own fate by relying too heavily on his friendship with Ajin d’Amphere and on his long years of service to the crown. Neither was ever protection enough when you crossed a king—which the Penetrator had done when he had sought to conceal Ajin’s transgressions and disobedience. Belladrin had not known Kol’Dre personally, but he was well known to most of the other Skaar Penetrators, his exploits chronicled in stories that celebrated his daring and his success. Belladrin had admired him and respected his abilities enough to be especially cautious when Cor d’Amphere had ordered her to kill him. Because the Skaar king had made clear that any mistakes would earn her a trip to the netherworld in his place.

  And there was good reason for this warning. Her job description required both that she be successful and that she avoid being caught. So Kol’Dre’s death was not undertaken out of spite or ambition, but out of necessity and with a larger purpose in view. The Penetrator had overstepped himself and needed to be removed, but even dead he would still serve a useful purpose. Belladrin Rish was exactly the right person to see that both results were achieved, and her king and benefactor had entrusted her with the responsibility for doing so.

  So she had been careful and thorough, and Kol’Dre was no more. And while she had admired him, she had also felt a certain amount of resentment. Kol’Dre had lived his life in full view of his people, an iconic figure whose accomplishments were reported and acknowledged and respected. She would never have any of that. She would always be forced to remain in the shadows, all but invisible. She would always be a ghost.

  She, too, was a Penetrator, and every bit as good as Kol’Dre was. The difference between them was that she was always kept in the background—right from the very first day that Cor d’Amphere had tapped her to serve him personally. He had made the nature of what he expected from her very clear. He wanted someone who would work only for him and always be a secret to everyone else. He had used her over and over, instructing her to ingratiate herself into the households and lives of various members of enemy nations, so that conquering them could be more easily achieved. She looked nothing like who or what she was, but rather exactly like what she pretended to be: a young woman more clever than her years would suggest, and more able to assist and advise those she purportedly served than they expected.

  For her assignment to the Four Lands, the Skaar king had sent her ahead shortly after the report came back that Kol’Dre had found a new home for their people. Her job was to discover the most dangerous of their potential enemies, infiltrate them, serve in a position of responsibility, then report back everything that might be of use. She was accomplished at learning new languages and manipulating people, so she was perfectly suited for the job. And it had been so much easier to insinuate herself into the hierarchy of the Federation than it had been with other governments on other assignments, for Ketter Vause had been a vain and overconfident man who saw himself as far from ordinary and liked to be acknowledged as such by those surrounding him. And she had been his eager audience of one, who at the same time could not only advise him on but also help to implement the solutions.

  She harbored no regrets about his demise, as she did about Kol’Dre’s. She cared nothing for Ketter Vause. His death had been necessary—as much for the confusion it would create as for the opportunities it would present. The witch, Clizia Porse, had provided the blueprint, but it was Belladrin Rish who was tasked with carrying it out.

  She scrunched her face into a frown, thinking of how fully she had allowed herself to become submerged in her present circumstances and how much she missed the life she had enjoyed before becoming a Penetrator and a slave. Belladrin Rish wasn’t even her name, and it certainly hadn’t been her name the last time she had engaged in an infiltration, or the time before that…or even the time before that. Her real name was Eris’Sin, but she hadn’t used it since she had entered Cor d’Amphere’s service in exchange for the king agreeing to spare her father’s life. And her mother’s, as well, she had assumed from the beginning, although the king had never directly made the threat. But when one fell out of favor—or was caught with his hand in the king’s pocket, as her father had been—it was usually a death sentence for both. And often for their children, too.

  If there was mercy to be found in the monarchy of the Skaar—a people committed to a warlike existence of exploring and conquering—she had never seen it. So it was fortunate that she was as smart and intuitive as she was. It was a blessing that she had been granted an interview with the king so that she could plead for her family’s safety and persuade him—while letting him think it was his idea—that she could be an asset to him as his personal facilitator and attendant. She would be willing to take an oath to serve him as such and pledged never to mislead or betray him. Things he could not do for himself, she promised, she would do for him.

  Somewhat to her surprise, he had agreed to her suggestion. Of course, he saw things somewhat differently than she did, but her goal had been achieved. He had agreed to spare the lives of herself and her parents so long as she served him ably. Only later, when she realized the nature of the imprisonment to which she had sentenced herself, did she realize what he had in mind. Her unique position as King’s Personal Penetrator had been invented especially for her, and carried with it a countless number of unpleasant duties.

  So here she was, some eight years later, carrying out yet another assignment that would end in the downfall of yet another country. It had never bothered her before, but she had to admit it was bothering her now. Mostly, she had managed to distance herself from those she pretended to serve and admire. Mostly, she had felt so little for them that, when they were betrayed and destroyed, she was more than ready to move on to a new pretend life. But not this time. This time it was different.

  A part of it was a growing fear that her time was running out. She had never thought this way before, but Cor d’Amphere’s willingness to dispatch his most efficient and productive Penetrator with such callous indifference made her own position feel a lot more tenuous. One day, on little more than a whim, he might find himself tired or suspicious of her. To her way of thinking, Kol’Dre’s allegiance to Ajin was not a betrayal; it was a quality that should have been praised and admired. Kol’Dre had not actively schemed against his king in any way. He had not worked to betray him. For years and years, he had performed his duties as Penetrator loyally and with great success. There was more to be gained by letting Kol’Dre live and continue to carry out his function as Penetrator than there was by simply dispatching him.

  Yet Cor d’Amphere had chosen the latter.

  Couldn’t he just as easily reach the same conclusion about her at some point?

  She was also dismayed at how killing Kol’Dre had made her feel. It wasn’t the first time she had been asked to kill someone. But before, she had mostly been able to delegate such tasks to others. She had remained in the background, manipulating lives and conveying useful information, avoiding engaging in violence. But not this time, and it had left her feeling haunted. She could not shake off how loathsome and dirty it had left her—how sick at heart and somehow diminished. She hated Cor d’Amphere for making her do it, for making her speak those words to Kol as he was dying, and for leaving her to deal with the emotional consequences of what she had done. She knew he believed it would not trouble her, that she would not suffer for it. And she knew he would feel free to ask it of her again.

  And there was a further problem—one that centered on the Four Lands. Yes, she had found Ketter Vause and many of the ministers of the Federation’s Coalition Council vain, self-centered, and consumed by a lust for power. But leaders are not always the best representatives of their people, and she was aware that what she disliked about them was not uniformly true of all Southlanders or members of other Races in other part
s of the Four Lands. In fact, she knew it to be exactly the opposite, as she had found many people she had come to like and admire. She had been living in the Four Lands for three years, and in spite of her intentions not to do so, she had grown fond of this country.

  But it was the Dwarves Battenhyle and Lakodan who had brought home to her how much she had come to care about this place. These were men she very much admired and genuinely liked. No-nonsense, bluff, and real, filled with concern for others—they were just the kind she most desired to befriend. How else could she explain her dismay at the way in which Ketter Vause had lied to and betrayed them once they had agreed to his bargain? How else to explain why she had resolved to do as much as she could to persuade Vause to honor his agreement? To involve herself so thoroughly in helping them was not something she had ever risked before, and it made her question the direction of her life.

  These were only musings, though. After all, what could she do that would free her from her servitude to the king without risking the lives of her family? She could care and ponder as much as she liked, but it always came back to the same thing. If she stepped out of line or attempted to break free of her commitment, her family would suffer the consequences.

  A rustle of canvas caused her to turn. The tent flaps widened sufficiently to admit the lean, slouched figure of Choten Benz. He slipped inside silently, and as he approached his hatchet face lifted out of shadow so that she could see the brightness of his eyes. Right away, she knew this was to be a different kind of confrontation.