by Terry Brooks
Shades! What am I supposed to do?
It was dark when Shea returned, appearing abruptly out of the shadows, moving into the moonlight and crossing the yard to sit down beside her. For a moment, neither spoke.
“That forest imp knows a whole lot about tracking,” he announced, giving her a look. “And about hiding in plain sight. And about leaving no tracks, and finding trails others have thought to hide.” He glanced over. “Has he really been alive since the time of Faerie?”
Tarsha shrugged. “He says so. That doesn’t make it true.”
“But who’s going to call him on it, right?” The boy stretched his legs, then he glanced over at her and paused. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Maybe. But you’re thinking about something that’s wrong. What is it?”
She looked back. He was so intuitive, so sharp. She liked that about him. “Why do you ask?”
He looked astounded. “Maybe because I’m your friend and care about you? Maybe because you look like you’ve been sitting there all afternoon, and I was hoping maybe you were waiting on me to talk about it?”
“Maybe I was.”
“Then let’s talk. What’s wrong? Something is; I can tell that much.”
She stared at him a moment, taken aback at the ease with which he read her mood. Then she nodded. “All right. Before he died, Drisker wrote a letter and gave it to Grianne Ohmsford and asked her to see that I received it if he didn’t return. She delivered it, but I put it in a drawer, intending to read it when I felt more distanced from the pain of losing Drisker. Then I forgot about it. Today I remembered.”
The boy nodded, waiting on her.
“I have to go back to Paranor,” she said. “I’ve been asked to do something, but I don’t think I can decide whether to do it or not without going there. Will you be all right without me?”
“Wait! What? You’re not going to tell me what was in the letter? You can’t do that!”
She gave him a look. “It involves me, not you. I will only be gone a few days. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be just fine, because I’m going with you.”
“This has to be my decision, not…”
“I don’t care about your decision!” he shouted. “I’m going with you!” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Rocan left me behind when he took Annabelle and the Behemoth and all his relatives and friends into that storm, and none of them came back. Then Seelah left me, as well. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m not going to be left behind again—not for any reason. I won’t interfere with your decision, whatever it is. I just want to be sure nothing happens to you. This can’t be so difficult for you to understand, can it?”
Then quickly he held up one hand as she tried to talk. “No, listen! You need company, just in case. What if things go wrong and you’re all alone? Then what?”
“They won’t go wrong.”
“Oh, sure. You can see the future, right? You can tell what’s going to happen? Just forget it! I’m coming, and that’s the end of it.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not…” He broke off. “Okay, maybe I am. But you hurt my feelings when you said you don’t need me. Besides, I don’t believe it. You do need me. I’m your friend. Probably your best friend…and maybe I’ll be more than that, one day.”
“Oh?” She grinned. “You’ve been letting your imagination run wild again, haven’t you?”
He shrugged. “I like you. A lot. And I think maybe you like me, too.”
“Maybe. Just don’t get carried away.”
“I’m fifteen years old. You’re only three years older than me.”
“Four.” She got up. “I’m going to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”
But she had no intention of doing any such thing. Bright and early—before the sun was up and while night’s shadows still draped the forest and the darkness was deeply hushed—she rose, dressed, grabbed the canvas bag she had packed the night before, and slipped from her bedroom. She passed silently through the living room and went out the front door. She was going alone, no matter what he thought.
“What took you so long?” Shea said, emerging from the shadows packed and ready to go. It brought her up short. How did he know what she was going to do? She shook her head at him. You had to admire his persistence. When that boy made up his mind, he followed through. And sometimes you had to accept the inevitable with as much grace as you could muster.
She smiled and nodded. “Sorry to be late. Let’s go.”
* * *
—
They flew east for three days to reach Paranor, spending the first night under a clear sky in the Streleheim, wrapped in blankets and pointing out shooting stars. There was a certain comfort to having Shea with her, Tarsha had to admit—a certain relief in not being alone. She had thought it better to do this by herself, but she realized quickly enough she had been mistaken. For something like this, it was better to have company—to have a witness, someone to question any choice she made.
That might not be a bad idea at all.
They reached their destination late on the third day, landing close to the walls of the Druid’s Keep, its bulk a huge dark presence in the fading light. It had aged already, as if standing empty for even those few months had allowed the forest to alter it dramatically. Weeds and vines grew up against the stones of its massive walls. Cracks had even begun to appear—a stark contrast with the seeming immutability Tarsha remembered from before. With no one inhabiting the Keep, it looked to have become a relic of a different age. It looked as if it were sleeping, and the Guardian sleeping with it. All these years it had stood there—the home of the Druids, and a symbol of the magic they wielded. A powerful guarantee that the Four Lands would be warded against the dark things of their world.
And now it was fading.
“Creepy,” Shea declared. “Do we have to go inside?”
Tarsha shook her head. “No. We can stay out here.”
Leaving him where he was, she walked closer, listening for the whispering sounds of the Guardian, but there were none. Paranor was quiet. It was a living entity—created of ancient magic and imbued with the power to exist eternally—and yet it seemed devoid of life.
Shea came up beside her. “Are you going to tell me about the letter now?”
She nodded. “The letter was written when Drisker…” She stopped abruptly, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I’ll just read it to you.”
She pulled it from her backpack and began:
Tarsha.
If you are reading this, then I am not coming back. This means you are the last Druid. To you falls the responsibility of forming a new Druid order—of curating the magic of the Four Lands, of protecting her from dark conjurings and darker artifacts that might threaten her, of opening Paranor and making it your home.
Druids past would say it is your duty, but I disagree. The decision is yours, and yours alone.
I could not do any of this successfully when I was Ard Rhys, and I do not suggest you will be able to do any better. But you have to decide. The words written below will send Paranor back into a limbo existence and she will disappear from the Four Lands until summoned again, and the Druid order will die with me. Or should you change your mind, you can take up the mantle that I failed to bear and use the Black Elfstone to bring her back again. I cannot tell you what to do. I can only tell you to do what feels right.
The choice is given to you and to you alone. Choose well.
She finished and put the letter away again. Shea was staring at her when she looked up, astonishment reflected in his young features. “What are you going to do?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I came here to try to find out. I thought it might help if I was present when I made the decision.
”
Random thoughts assailed her. How the Shade of Allanon had ordered a reluctant Drisker to ordain her as his successor at the shores of the Hadeshorn so that she would be prepared to take up the Druid mantle. How when she entered Paranor in search of a way to bring her mentor out of the Forbidding, the Guardian of the Keep had confronted her, but instead of attacking her, had bowed. Did she not have an obligation to honor those acknowledgments? Could she refuse the responsibilities that had so clearly been bestowed on her?
And what of the artifacts that Grianne Ohmsford had left in her care: the darkwand, the Stiehl, and the two scrye orbs? Could she simply leave them in their hiding place as if no care or usage was required of them? Could she pretend that all of Paranor’s magic was better off left untouched and forgotten?
Could she walk away, even knowing it was what she wanted to do?
“This all seems wrong!” Shea exclaimed. “It’s unfair to ask one person to make such a choice—and especially you. You’ve been through enough. I don’t care what the grandfather says. It shouldn’t have to be you.”
“But apparently it is.”
She told him then of Parlindru and the rule of three. She skipped the details on the other two prophecies and concentrated her explanation on the one saying she would change the lives of others three times, but once she would change the world.
“Don’t you see?” she asked quietly. “Whichever choice I make, I will be changing the world. The course of events resulting from my choice will depend heavily on whether or not there are Druids and magic. If I do as Allanon expected me to do, I will be adding to a line of magic users that has lasted almost three thousand years. It is the Druids who have fostered and sustained magic, and the Druids who have managed it so that its uses are wise ones. So if I become a new Druid, I will be committing to sustaining magic as a presence in the Four Lands. If I step away, significant amounts of magic will be lost and perhaps it will die out entirely. So which choice is better? Are we better off with magic in the world or not? Just look at what happened because Tindall decided to build a machine that changes the weather. We have a new science now. Perhaps this is what the Races are meant to rely on. Perhaps magic has run its course. Maybe the world is better off without it.”
The boy started to say something but stopped himself when she continued talking.
“But how will we find our way without magic after we have relied on it for so long? Magic has protected us. Magic has allowed us to evolve—to bring that new science to life. And what happened in Skaarsland would not have happened had science and your magic not combined. So are we to abandon it? The Elves won’t. Magic has always had a purpose for them, even before the Great Wars. How will they be affected? What will they do as a consequence of having something no one else has? Will they disappear as they did before? Will they be driven from the Four Lands because they have power no one else does? If all that remains is rogue magic and stray artifacts, what will this do to the Races?”
She slumped to the ground, staring at Paranor’s walls as the shadows closed about. “I’m being asked to decide the future without knowing anything at all about what will happen once I do. I’m being asked to intuit what is right for all the Races. But how can I know this?”
Shea dropped down beside her. “You can’t. No one can. All you can do is what the grandfather told you. Choose the way that feels right and hope for the best.”
Tarsha nodded wordlessly, overwhelmed by the challenge, afraid of what would happen no matter what choice she made. What if the future was less a choice between science or magic, but a balance? What if both were needed, to move forward together, much as Shea had proved in Skaarsland?
The boy moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “You know what? I think whatever choice you make will be the right one. And no matter what you decide, I will support you. That’s what friends do, and we’re friends, aren’t we? Look at how much help you’ve given me with my wishsong. Now maybe it’s my turn to do something to help you.”
She reached up and placed her hand over his and felt him lean his head against her. They sat in silence as the sun disappeared, taking the last of its light with it. Together, they watched the stars appear.
Together, they tried to imagine the future.
FOR MY READERS:
THOSE WHO STARTED OUT WITH ME, THOSE WHO CLIMBED ABOARD ALONG THE WAY, THOSE WHO STAYED TO THE VERY END, AND ESPECIALLY THOSE WHO MAKE UP THE SHANNARA COMMUNITY.
THERE ARE NO WORDS TO EXPRESS ADEQUATELY HOW MUCH YOU HAVE GIVEN ME.
BY TERRY BROOKS
SHANNARA
SHANNARA
First King of Shannara
The Sword of Shannara
The Elfstones of Shannara
The Wishsong of Shannara
THE HERITAGE OF SHANNARA
The Scions of Shannara
The Druid of Shannara
The Elf Queen of Shannara
The Talismans of Shannara
THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA
Ilse Witch
Antrax
Morgawr
HIGH DRUID OF SHANNARA
Jarka Ruus
Tanequil
Straken
THE DARK LEGACY OF SHANNARA
Wards of Faerie
Bloodfire Quest
Witch Wraith
THE DEFENDERS OF SHANNARA
The High Druid’s Blade
The Darkling Child
The Sorcerer’s Daughter
THE FALL OF SHANNARA
The Black Elfstone
The Skaar Invasion
The Stiehl Assassin
The Last Druid
PRE-SHANNARA
GENESIS OF SHANNARA
Armageddon’s Children
The Elves of Cintra
The Gypsy Morph
LEGENDS OF SHANNARA
Bearers of the Black Staff
The Measure of the Magic
The World of Shannara
THE MAGIC KINGDOM OF LANDOVER
Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold!
The Black Unicorn
Wizard at Large
The Tangle Box
Witches’ Brew
A Princess of Landover
THE WORD AND THE VOID
Running with the Demon
A Knight of the Word
Angel Fire East
Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terry Brooks is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty books, including the Dark Legacy of Shannara adventures Wards of Faerie, Bloodfire Quest, and Witch Wraith; the Legends of Shannara novels Bearers of the Black Staff and The Measure of the Magic; the Genesis of Shannara trilogy: Armageddon’s Children, The Elves of Cintra, and The Gypsy Morph; The Sword of Shannara; the Voyage of the Jerle Shannara trilogy: Ilse Witch, Antrax, and Morgawr; the High Druid of Shannara trilogy: Jarka Ruus, Tanequil, and Straken; the nonfiction book Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life; and the novel based upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas, Star Wars: Episode I The Phantom Menace. His novels Running with the Demon and A Knight of the Word were selected by the Rocky Mountain News as two of the best science fiction/fantasy novels of the twentieth century. The author lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest.
shannara.com
terrybrooks.net
Facebook.com/authorterrybrooks
Twitter: @TerryBrooks
Instagram: @officialterrybrooks
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Terry Brooks, The Last Druid
