by Terry Brooks
Wren caught her breath sharply. “Who are you?”
“Well, now,” the old man said, “that seems to be everyone’s favorite question. My name doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have been sent to tell you that you can no longer afford to ignore your dreams. Those dreams, Rover girl, come from Allanon.”
As he spoke he signed to Garth, repeating his words with the language of his fingers, as dexterous at the skill as if he had known it all his life. Wren was aware of the big Rover looking at her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the old man. “How do you know of the dreams?” she asked him softly.
He told her who he was then, that he was Cogline, a former Druid pressed back into service because the real Druids were gone from the Four Lands and there was no other who could go to the members of the Ohmsford family and warn them that the dreams were real. He told her that Allanon’s ghost had sent him to convince her of the purpose of the dreams, to persuade her that they spoke the truth, that the Four Lands were in gravest danger, that the magic was almost lost, that only the Ohmsfords could restore it, and that they must come to him on the first night of the new moon to discover what must be done. He finished by saying that he had gone first to Par Ohmsford, then to Walker Boh—recipients of the dreams as well—and now finally he had come to her.
When he was done, she sat thinking for a moment before speaking. “The dreams have troubled me for some time now,” she confessed. “I thought them dreams like any other and nothing more. The Ohmsford magic has never been a part of my life . . .”
“And you question whether or not you are an Ohmsford at all,” the old man interrupted. “You are not certain, are you? If you are not an Ohmsford, then the magic has no part in your life—which might be just as well as far as you’re concerned, mightn’t it?”
Wren stared at him. “How do you know all this, Cogline?” She didn’t question that he was who he claimed; she accepted it because she believed that it didn’t really matter one way or the other. “How do you know so much about me?” She leaned forward, suddenly anxious. “Do you know the truth of who I really am?”
The old man shrugged. “It is not nearly so important to know who you are as who you might be,” he answered enigmatically. “If you wish to learn something of that, then do as the dreams have asked. Come to the Hadeshorn and speak to Allanon.”
She eased away slowly, glancing momentarily at Garth before looking back. “You’re playing with me,” she told the old man.
“Perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Oh, quite simple, really. If you are intrigued enough by what I say, you might agree to do as I ask and come with me. I chose to chastise and berate the other members of your family. I thought I might try a new approach with you. Time grows short, and I am just an old man. The new moon is only six days distant now. Even on horseback, it will require at least four days to reach the Hadeshorn—five, if I am to make the journey.”
He was signing everything he said, and now Garth made a quick response. The old man laughed. “Will I choose to make the journey? Yes, by golly, I think I will. I have gone about a shades’s business for some weeks now. I believe I am entitled to know what the culmination of that business might be.” He paused, thoughtful. “Besides, I am not altogether sure I have been given a choice . . .” He trailed off.
Wren glanced eastward to where the sun was a pale white ball of fire resting atop the horizon, screened by clouds and haze, its warmth still distant. Gulls swooped across the mirrored waters of the Myrian, fishing. The stillness of the early morning let her thoughts whisper undisturbed within her.
“What did my cousin . . . ?” she began, then caught herself.
The word didn’t sound right when she spoke it. It distanced her from him in a way she didn’t care for. “What did Par say that he was going to do?” she finished.
“He said he was going to think the matter over,” the old man replied. “He and his brother. They were together when I found them.”
“And my uncle?”
The other shrugged. “The same.”
But there was something in his eyes that said otherwise. Wren shook her head. “You are playing with me again. What did they say?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Rover girl, you try my patience. I haven’t the energy to sit about and repeat entire conversations just so you can use that as an excuse for making your decision in this matter. Haven’t you a mind of your own? If they go, they will do so for their own reasons and not for any you might provide. Shouldn’t you do likewise?”
Wren Ohmsford was a rock. “What did they say?” she repeated once again, measuring each word carefully before she spoke it.
“What they chose!” the other snapped, his fingers flicking his responses angrily now at Garth, though his eyes never left Wren’s. “Am I a parrot to repeat the phrases of others for your amusement?”
He glared at her a moment, then threw up his hands. “Very well! Here is the whole of it, then! Young Par, his brother with him, has been chased from Varfleet by the Federation for making use of the magic to tell stories of their family history and the Druids. He thought to go home when I last saw him, to think about the dreams a bit. He will have discovered by now that he cannot do so, that his home is in Federation hands and his parents—your own of sorts, once upon a time—are prisoners!”
Wren started in surprise, but the old man ignored her.
“Walker Boh is another matter. He thinks himself severed from the Ohmsford family. He lives alone and prefers it that way. He wants nothing to do with his family and the world at large and Druids in particular. He thinks that only he knows the proper uses of magic, that the rest of us who possess some small skill are incapable of reason! He forgets who taught him what! He . . .”
“You,” Wren interjected.
“ . . .charges about on some self-proclaimed mission of . . .” He stopped short. “What? What did you say?”
“You,” she repeated, her eyes locking on his. “You were his teacher once, weren’t you?”
There was a moment of silence as the sharp old eyes studied her appraisingly. “Yes, girl. I was. Are you satisfied now? Is that the revelation you sought? Or do you require something more?”
He had forgotten to sign what he was saying, but Garth seemed to have read his lips in any case. He caught Wren’s attention, nodding in approval. Always try to learn something of your adversary that he doesn’t want you to know, he had taught her. It gives you an edge.
“So he isn’t going then, is he?” she pressed. “Walker, I mean.”
“Ha!” the old man exclaimed in satisfaction. “Just when I conclude what a smart girl you are, you prove me wrong!” He cocked an eyebrow on his seamed face. “Walker Boh says he isn’t going, and he thinks he isn’t going. But he is! The young one, too—Par. That’s the way it will be. Things work out the way we least expect them to sometimes. Or maybe that’s just the Druid magic at work, twisting those promises and oaths we so recklessly take, steering us where we didn’t think we could ever be made to go.” He shook his head in amusement. “Always was a baffling trick.”
He drew his robes about him and bent forward. “Now what is it to be with you, little Wren? Brave bird or timid flyaway—which will you be?”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Why not both, depending on what is needed?” she asked.
He grunted impatiently. “Because the situation calls for one or the other. Choose.”
Wren let her eyes shift briefly to Garth, then off into the woods, slipping deep into the shadows where the still-distant sunlight had not yet penetrated. Her thoughts and questions of the previous night came back to her, darting through her mind with harrying insistence. Well, she could go if she chose, she knew. The Rovers wouldn’t stop her, not even Garth—though he would insist on going as well. She could confront the shade of Allanon. She could speak with the shade of a legend, a man many said never existed at all. She could ask the questions of him she had carried about with he
r for so many years now, perhaps learn some of the answers, possibly come to an understanding about herself that she had lacked before. A rather ambitious task, she thought. An intriguing one.
She felt sunlight slipping across the bridge of her nose, tickling her. It would mean a reunion with Par and Coll and Walker Boh—her other family that maybe wasn’t really family at all. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She might enjoy that.
But it would also mean confronting the reality of her dreams—or at least a shade’s version of that reality. And that could mean a change in the course of her life, a life with which she was perfectly content. It could mean disruption of that life, an involvement in matters that she might better avoid.
Her mind raced. She could feel the presence of the little bag with the painted stones pressing against her breast as if to remind her of what might be. She knew the stories of the Ohmsfords and the Druids, too, and she was wary.
Then, unexpectedly, she found herself smiling. Since when had being wary ever stopped her from doing anything? Shades! This was an unlocked door that begged to be opened! How could she live with herself if she passed it up?
The old man interrupted her thoughts. “Rover girl, I grow weary. These ageing bones require movement to keep from locking up. Let me have your decision. Or do you, like the others in your family, require untold amounts of time to puzzle this matter through?”
Wren glanced over at Garth, cocking one eyebrow. The giant Rover’s nod was barely perceptible.
She looked back at Cogline. “You are so testy, old grandfather!” she chided. “Where is your patience?”
“Gone with my youth, child,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. His hands folded before him. “Now what’s it to be?”
She smiled. “The Hadeshorn and Allanon,” she answered. “What did you expect?”
But the old man did not reply.
XIV
Five days later, with the sun exploding streamers of violet and red fire all across the western horizon in the kind of day’s-end fireworks display that only summer provides, Wren, Garth, and the old man who said he was Cogline reached the base of the Dragon’s Teeth and the beginning of the winding, narrow rock trail that led into the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn.
Par Ohmsford was the first to see them. He had gone up the trail a few hundred yards to a rock shelf where he could sit and look out over the sweep of Callahorn south and be by himself. He had arrived with Coll, Morgan, Walker, Steff, and Teel one day earlier, and his patience at waiting for the arrival of the first night of the new moon had begun to wear a little thin. He was immersed mostly in his admiration for the majesty of the sunset when he caught sight of the odd trio as they rode their horses out of the westward glare from a screen of poplar trees and started toward him. He came to his feet slowly, refusing to trust his eyes at first. Then, having determined that he was not mistaken, he leaped from his perch and charged back down the trail to alert the others of his little company who were camped immediately below.
Wren got there almost before he did. Her sharp Elven eyes caught sight of him at about the same time he saw her. Acting on impulse and leaving her companions to follow as best they could, she spurred her horse ahead recklessly, came charging into camp, vaulted from the saddle before her mount was fully checked, rushed up to Par with a wild yell, and hugged him with such enthusiasm that he was almost knocked from his feet. When she was done with him, she gave the same reception to an astonished, but delighted Coll. Walker got a more reserved kiss on the cheek and Morgan, whom she barely remembered from her childhood, a handshake and a nod.
While the three Ohmsford siblings—for they seemed such, despite the fact that Wren wasn’t a true sister—traded hugs and words of greeting, those with them stood around uncomfortably and sized up one another with wary glances. Most of the sizing up was reserved for Garth, who was twice as big as any of the rest of them. He was dressed in the brightly colored clothing common to the Rovers, and the garishness of his garb made him seem larger still. He met the stares of the others without discomfort, his gaze steady and implacable. Wren remembered him after a moment and began the required series of introductions. Par followed with Steff and Teel. Cogline hung back from the others; since everyone seemed to know who he was, in any case, no formal introduction was attempted. There were nods and handshakes all around, courtesies observed as expected, but the wariness in the faces of most did not subside. When they all moved over to the fire that formed the center of the little campsite to partake of the dinner that the Dwarves had been in the process of preparing when Wren and her companions had appeared, the newly formed company of nine quickly fragmented into groups. Steff and Teel turned their attention to the completion of the meal, mute as they hovered over the pots and cooking fire, Walker withdrew to a patch of shade under a scrawny pine, and Cogline disappeared into the rocks without a word to anyone. He was so quiet about it that he was gone almost before they realized it. But Cogline was not really considered a part of the company, so no one much bothered about it. Par, Coll, Wren, and Morgan clustered together by the horses, unsaddling them and rubbing them down, and talked about old times, old friends, the places they had been, the things they had seen, and the vicissitudes of life.
“You are much grown, Wren,” Coll marveled. “Not at all the broomstick little girl I remember when you left us.”
“A rider of horses, wild as the wind! No boundaries for you!” Par laughed, throwing up his hands in a gesture meant to encompass the whole of the land.
Wren grinned back. “I live a better life than the lot of you, resting on your backsides, singing old tales and rousting tired dogs. The Westland’s a good country for free-spirited things, you know.” Then her grin faded. “The old man, Cogline, told me of what’s happened in the Vale. Jaralan and Mirianna were my parents for a time, too, and I care for them still. Prisoners, he said. Have you heard anything of them?”
Par shook his head. “We have been running ever since Varfleet.”
“I am sorry, Par.” There was genuine discomfort in her eyes.
“The Federation does its best to make all of our lives miserable. Even the Westland has its share of soldiers and administrative lackeys, though it’s country they mostly ignore. The Rovers know how to avoid them in any case. If need be, you would be welcome to join us.”
Par gave her another quick hug. “Best that we see how this business of the dreams turns out first,” he whispered.
They ate a dinner of fried meats, fresh-baked hard bread, stewed vegetables, cheese, and nuts, and washed it all down with ale and water while they watched the sun disappear beneath the horizon. The food was good, and everyone said so, much to Steff’s pleasure, for he had prepared the better part of it. Cogline remained absent, but the others began talking a bit more freely among themselves, all but Teel, who never seemed to want to speak. As far as Par knew, he was the only one besides Steff to whom the Dwarf girl had ever said anything.
When the dinner was complete, Steff and Teel took charge of cleaning the dishes, and the others drifted away in ones and twos as the dusk settled slowly into the night. While Coll and Morgan went down to a spring a quarter-mile off to draw fresh water, Par found himself ambling back up the trail that led into the mountains and the Valley of Shale in the company of Wren and the giant Garth.
“Have you been back there yet?” Wren asked as they walked, nodding in the direction of the Hadeshorn.
Par shook his head. “It’s several hours in and no one’s much wanted to hurry matters along. Even Walker has refused to go there before the scheduled time.” He glanced skyward where clusters of stars dotted the heavens in intricate patterns and a small, almost invisible crescent moon hung low against the horizon north. “Tomorrow night,” he said.
Wren didn’t reply. They walked on in silence until they reached the shelf of rock that Par had occupied earlier that day. There they stopped, looking back over the country south.
“You’ve had the dreams, too?” Wren asked
him then and went on to describe her own. When he nodded, she said, “What do you think?”
Par eased himself down on the rock, the other two sitting with him. “I think that ten generations of Ohmsfords have lived their lives since the time of Brin and Jair, waiting for this to happen. I think that the magic of the Elven house of Shannara, Ohmsford magic now, is something more than we realize. I think Allanon—or his shade, at least—will tell us what that something is.” He paused. “I think it may turn out to be something wondrous—and something terrible.”
He was aware of her staring at him with those intense hazel eyes, and he shrugged apologetically. “I don’t mean to be overdramatic. That’s just the sense I have of things.”
She translated his comments automatically for Garth, who gave no indication of what he thought. “You and Walker have some use of the magic,” she said quietly. “I have none. What of that?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. Morgan’s magic is stronger than mine these days and he wasn’t called.” He went on to tell her about their confrontation with the Shadowen and the Highlander’s discovery of the magic that had lain dormant in the Sword of Leah. “I find myself wondering why the dreams didn’t command him to appear instead of me, for all the use the wishsong has been.”
“But you don’t know for certain how strong your magic is, Par,” she said quietly. “You should remember from the stories that none of the Ohmsfords, from Shea on down, fully understood when they began their quests the uses of the Elven magic. Might it not be the same with you?”
It might, he realized with a shiver. He cocked his head. “Or you, Wren. What of you?”
