by Terry Brooks
They were asleep in moments.
Neither saw the tall, black-robed figure who stood in the shadow of the pines just beyond the fire’s light.
When they awoke the following morning, Allanon was there. He was seated only a few yards away from them on a hollow log, his tall, spare form wraithlike in the gray light of early dawn. He watched silently as they rose, washed, and ate a light breakfast, offering no explanation as to where he had been. More than once the Valegirl and the highlander glanced openly in his direction, but he seemed to take no notice. It was not until they had packed their bedrolls and cooking gear and brought the horses in to be saddled that he finally rose and came over to them.
“There has been a change of plans,” he announced. They stared at him silently. “We are no longer going east. We are going north into the Dragon’s Teeth.”
“The Dragon’s Teeth?” Rone’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Because it is necessary.”
“Necessary for whom?” Rone snapped.
“It will only be for a day or so.” Allanon turned his attention to Brin now, ignoring the angry highlander. “I have a visit to make. When it is finished, we will turn east again and complete our journey.”
“Allanon.” Brin spoke his name softly. “Tell us why we must go north.”
The Druid hesitated, his face darkening. Then he nodded. “Very well. Last night I received a summons from my father. He bids me come to him, and I am bound to do so. In life, he was the Druid Bremen. Now his shade surfaces from the netherworld through the waters of the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale. In three days time, before daybreak, he will speak with me there.”
Bremen—the Druid who had escaped the massacre of the Council at Paranor, when the Warlock Lord swept down out of the Northland in the Second War of the Races, and who had forged the Sword of Shannara. So long ago, Brin thought, the legendary tale recalling itself in her memory. Then, seventy-odd years ago, Shea Ohmsford had gone with Allanon into the Valley of Shale and seen the shade of Bremen rise from the Hadeshorn to converse with his son, to warn of what lay ahead, to prophesy . . .
“He can see the future, can’t he?” Brin asked suddenly, remembering now how the shade had warned of Shea’s fate.
“Will he speak of that?”
Allanon shook his head doubtfully. “Perhaps. Even so, he would reveal only fragments of what is to be, for the future is not yet formed in its entirety and must of necessity remain in doubt. Only certain things can be known. Even they are not always clear to our understanding.” He shrugged. “In any case, he calls. He would not do so if it were not of grave importance.”
“I don’t like it,” Rone announced. “It’s another three days or more gone—time that could be spent getting into and out of the Anar. The Wraiths are already searching for you. You told us that much yourself. We’re just giving them that much more time to find you—and Brin.”
The Druid’s eyes fixed on him, cold and hard. “I take no unnecessary risks with the girl’s safety, Prince of Leah. Nor with your own.”
Rone flushed angrily, and Brin stepped forward, seizing his hand. “Wait, Rone. Perhaps going to the Hadeshorn is a good idea. Perhaps we will learn something of what the future holds that will aid us.”
The highlander kept his gaze locked on Allanon. “What would aid us most is a bit more of the truth of what we’re about!” he snapped.
“So.” The word was a soft, quick whisper; and Allanon’s tall form seemed to suddenly grow taller. “What part of the truth would you have me reveal, Prince of Leah?”
Rone held his ground. “This much, Druid. You tell Brin that she must come with you into the Eastland because you lack the power necessary to penetrate the barrier that protects the book of dark magic—you, who are the keeper of the secrets of the Druids, who possess power enough to destroy Skull Bearers and Demons alike! Yet you need her. And what does she have that you don’t? The wishsong. Nothing more, just that. It lacks even the power of the Elfstones! It is a magic toy that changes the colors of leaves and causes flowers to bloom! What kind of protection is that?”
Allanon stared at him silently for a moment and then smiled, a faint, sad smile. “What kind of power, indeed?”
he murmured. He looked suddenly at Brin. “Do you, too, harbor these doubts the highlander voices? Do you seek a better understanding of the wishsong? Shall I show you something of its use?”
It was cold the way he said it, but Brin nodded. “Yes.” The Druid strode past her, seized the reins of his horse and mounted. “Come then, and I will show you, Valegirl,” he said.
They rode north in silence along the Mermidon, winding their way through the rocky forestland, the light of the sunrise breaking through the trees on their left, the shadow of the Runne Mountains a dark wall on their right. They rode for more than an hour, a grim, voiceless procession. Then at last the Druid signaled a halt, and they dismounted.
“Leave the horses,” he instructed.
They walked west into the forest, the Druid leading the Valegirl and the highlander across a ridge and down into a heavily wooded hollow. After several minutes of fighting their way through the’ tangled undergrowth, Allanon stopped and turned.
“Now then, Brin.” He pointed ahead into the brush. “Pretend that this hollow is the barrier of dark magic through which you must pass. How would you use the wishsong to gain passage?”
She glanced about uncertainly. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Not sure?” He shook his head. “Think of the uses to which you have put the magic. Have you used it as the Prince of Leah suggests to bring autumn color to the leaves of a tree? Have you used it to bring flowers to bloom, leaves to bud, plants to grow?” She nodded. “You have used it, then, to change color and shape and behavior. Do so here. Make the brush part for you.”
She looked at him a moment and then nodded. This was more than she had ever asked of herself, and she was not convinced she had the power. Moreover, it had been a long time since she had used the magic. But she would try. Softly, she began to sing. Her voice was low and even, the song blending with the sounds of the forest. Then slowly she changed its pitch, and it rose until all else had faded into stillness. Words came, unrehearsed, spontaneous and somehow intuitively felt as she reached out to the brush that blocked her passage. Slowly the tangle drew back, leaves and branches withdrawing in winding ribbons of sleek green.
A moment later, the way forward lay open to the center of the hollow.
“Simple enough, don’t you agree?” But the Druid wasn’t really asking. “Let’s see where your path takes us.”
He started ahead again, black robes drawn close. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who shrugged his lack of understanding. They followed after the Druid. Seconds later he stopped again, this time pointing to an elm, its trunk bent and stunted within the shadow of a taller, broader oak. The elm’s limbs had grown into those of the oak, twisting upward in a futile effort to reach the sunlight.
“A bit harder task this time, Brin,” Allanon said suddenly. “That elm would be much better off if the sun could reach it. I want you to straighten it, bring it upright, and disentangle it from the oak.”
Brin looked at the two trees doubtfully. They seemed too closely entwined. “I don’t think I can do that,” she told him quietly.
“Try.”
“The magic is not strong enough . . .”
“Try anyway,” he cut her short.
So she sang, the wishsong enfolding the other sounds of the forest until there was nothing else, rising brightly into the morning air. The elm shuddered, limbs quaking in response. Brin lifted the pitch of her song, sensing the tree’s resistance, and the words formed a harder edge. The stunted trunk of the elm drew back from the oak, its limbs scraping and tearing and its leaves ripped violently from their stems.
Then, with shocking suddenness, the entire tree seemed to heave upward and explode in a shower of fragmented limbs, twigs, and leaves that rained down across the length of
the hollow. Astonished, Brin stumbled back, shielding her face with her hands, the wishsong dying into instant stillness. She would have fallen but for Allanon, who caught her in his arms, held her protectively until the shower had subsided, then turned her to face him.
“What happened . . .?” she began, but he quickly put a finger to her lips.
“Power, Valegirl,” he whispered. “Power in your wishsong far greater than what you have imagined. That elm could not disentangle itself from the oak. Its limbs were far too stiff, far too heavily entwined. Yet it could not refuse your song. It had no choice but to pull free—even when the result meant destroying itself!”
“Allanon!” She shook her head in disbelief.
“You have that power, Brin Ohmsford. As with all things magic, there is a dark side as well as a light.” The Druid’s face came closer. “You have played with changing the colors of a tree’s leaves. Think what would happen if you carried the seasonal change you wrought to its logical conclusion. The tree would pass from autumn into winter, from winter into spring, from seasonal change to seasonal change. At last it would have passed through the entire cycle of its life. It would die.”
“Druid . . .” Rone warned and started forward, but a single dark glance from the other’s eyes froze him in his tracks.
“Stand, Prince of Leah. Let her hear the truth.” The black eyes again found Brin’s. “You have played with the wishsong as you would a curious toy because that is all the use you saw for it. Yet you knew that it was more than that, Valegirl—always, deep inside, you knew. Elven magic has always been more than that. Yours is the magic of the Elfstones, born into new form in its passage from your father’s blood to your own. There is power in you of a sort that transcends any that has gone before—latent perhaps, yet the potential is unmistakable. Consider for a moment the nature of this magic you wield. The wishsong can change the behavior of any living thing! Can you not see what that means? Supple brush can be made to part for you, giving you access where there was none before. Unbending trees can be made to part as well, though they shatter with the effort. If you can bring color to leaves, you can also drain it away. If you can cause flowers to bloom, you can also cause them to wilt. If you can give life, Brin, you can also take it away.”
She stared at him, horrified. “What are you saying?” she whispered harshly. “That the wishsong can kill? That I would use it to kill? Do you think . . .?”
“You asked to be shown something of its use,” Allanon cut short her protestations. “I have simply done as you wished. But I think now you will no longer doubt that the magic is much more than you thought it was.”
Brin’s dusky face burned with anger. “I no longer doubt, Allanon. Nor should you doubt this—that even so, I would never use the wishsong to kill! Never!”
The Druid held her gaze, yet the hard features softened slightly. “Not even to save your own life? Or perhaps the life of the highlander? Not even then?”
She did not look away. “Never.”
The Druid stared at the Valegirl a moment longer—as if to measure in some way the depth of her commitment. Then abruptly he wheeled away and started back toward the slope of the hollow.
“You have seen enough, Brin. We have to get on with our journey. Think about what you have learned.”
His black form disappeared into the brush. Brin stood where he had left her, aware suddenly that her hands were shaking. That tree! The way it had simply shattered, torn apart . . .
“Brin.” Rone was standing before her, and his hands came up to grip her shoulders. She winced at their touch. “We can’t go on with him—not anymore. He plays games with us as he has done with all the others. Leave him and his foolish quest and come back with me mow to the Vale.”
She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “No. It was necessary that I see this.”
“None of this is necessary, for cat’s sake!” His big hands drew back and fastened about the pommel of the Sword of Leah. “If he does something like that again, I’ll not think twice . . .”
“No, Rone.” She put her hands over his. She was calm once more, realizing suddenly that she had missed something. “What he did was not done simply to frighten or intimidate me. It was done to teach me, and it was done out of a need for haste. It was in his eyes. Could you not see it?”
He shook his head. “I saw nothing. What need for haste?” She looked to where the Druid had gone. “Something is wrong. Something.”
Then she thought again of the destruction of the tree, of the Druid’s words of warning, and of her vow. Never! She looked quickly back at Rone. “Do you think I could use the wishsong to kill?” she asked softly.
For just an instant he hesitated. “No.”
Even to save your life? she thought. And what if it were not a tree that threatened, but a living creature? Would I destroy it to save you? Oh, Rone, what if it were a human being?
“Will you still come with me on this journey?” she asked him.
He gave her his most rakish smile. “Right up to the moment when we take that confounded book and shred it.”
Then he bent to kiss her lightly on the mouth, and her arms came up to hold him close. “We’ll be all right,” she heard him say.
And she answered, “I know.”
But she was no longer sure.
VI
When Jair Ohmsford regained consciousness, he found himself trussed hand and foot and securely lashed against a tree trunk. He was no longer in the hunting lodge but in a clearing sheltered by closely grown fir that loomed over him like sentinels set to watch. A dozen feet in front of him, a small fire burned, casting its faint glow into the shadowed dark of the silent trees. Night lay over the land.
“Awake again, boy?”
The familiar, chiding voice came from out of the darkness to his left, and he turned his head slowly, searching. A squat, motionless figure crouched at the edge of the firelight, Jair started to reply, then realized that he was not only tied; he was gagged as well.
“Oh yes, sorry about that,” the other spoke again. “Had to put the gag in, of course. Couldn’t have you using your magic on me a second time, could I? Do you have any idea how long it took me to get out of that wood bin?”
Jair sagged back against the tree, remembering. The Gnome at the inn—that was who had followed him, caught up with him at Rone’s hunting lodge, and struck him from behind . . .
He winced at the memory, finding that the side of his head still throbbed.
“Nice trick, that thing with the snakes.” The Gnome chuckled faintly. He rose and came into the firelight, seating himself cross-legged a few feet from his prisoner. Narrow green eyes studied Jair speculatively. “I thought you harmless, boy—not some Druid’s whelp. Worse luck for me, eh? There I was, sure you’d be so scared that you’d tell me right off what I wanted to know—tell me anything just to get rid of me. Not you, though. Snakes on my arms and a four-foot limb bashed up against my head, that’s what you gave me. Lucky I’m alive!”
The blocky yellow face cocked slightly. “Course, that was your mistake.” A blunt finger came up sharply. “You should have finished me. But you didn’t, and that gave me another chance at you. Suppose that’s the way you are, though, being from the Vale. Anyway, once I got free of that wood bin, I came after you like a fox after a rabbit. Too bad for you, too, because I wasn’t about to let you escape, after what you’d put me through. Not by a whisker’s cut, I wasn’t! Those other fools, they’d have let you outrun them. But not me. Tracked you three days. Almost had you at the river, but you were already across and I couldn’t pick up your trail at night. Had to wait. But I caught you napping at that lodge, didn’t I?”
He laughed cheerfully and Jair flushed with anger. “Oh, don’t be angry with me—I was just doing my job. Besides, it was a matter of pride. Twenty years, and no one’s ever gotten the best of me until now. And then it’s some nothing boy. Couldn’t live with that Oh, knocking you senseless— had to do that, too. Like I
said, couldn’t be taking chances with the magic.”
He got up and came a few steps closer, his rough face screwed up with obvious curiosity. “It was magic, wasn’t it? How’d you learn to do that? It’s in the voice, right? You make the snakes come by using the voice. Quite a trick. Scared the wits out of me, and I thought there wasn’t much left that could scare me.” He paused. “Except maybe the walkers.”
Jair’s eyes glistened with fear at mention of the Mord Wraiths. The Gnome saw it and nodded. “Something to be scared of, they are. Black all through. Dark as midnight. Wouldn’t want them hunting me. Don’t know how you got past that one back at the house . . .”
He stopped suddenly and bent forward. “Hungry, boy?” Jair nodded. The Gnome regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then rose. “Tell you what. I’ll loosen the gag and feed you if you promise not to use the magic on me. Wouldn’t do you much good anyway trussed up to that tree—not unless those snakes of yours can chew through ropes. I’ll feed you and we can talk a bit. The others won’t catch up until morning. What about it?”
Jair thought it over a moment, then nodded his agreement. He was famished.
“Done, then.” The Gnome came over and slipped free the gag. One hand fastened tightly to Jair’s chin. “Your word now—let’s have it. No magic.”
“No magic,” Jair repeated, wincing.
“Good. Good.” The Gnome let his hand drop. “You’re one who keeps his word, I’m betting. Man’s only as good as his word, you know.” He reached down to his waist for a hard leather container, released the stopper and brought it up to the Valeman’s lips. “Drink. Go on, take a swallow.”
Jair sipped at the unknown liquid, his throat dry and tight. It was an ale, harsh and bitter, and it burned all the way down. Jair choked and drew back, and the Gnome recapped the container and returned it to his belt. Then he sat back on his haunches, grinning.
“I’m called Slanter.”
