by Terry Brooks
Bek braced for the response he expected Walker to give, but the Druid surprised him. “Magic is not what will save us in this matter or even what will do us the most good. Think about it. If our adversary uses a language of symbols, a language that was devised before the Great Wars by a Mankind steeped in science, then in all likelihood, it has no magic itself. It brought us here because it covets our magic. It covets what we have and it does not. Why this is so is what we must determine. But our chances of overcoming our adversary are not necessarily reliant on the use of magic.”
“That is a large assumption, Druid,” Little Red declared bluntly. “What of the things that warded the keys on the islands we visited? The eels might have been real enough, but what of that living jungle and that castle? Wasn’t magic in play there?”
Walker nodded. “But not a magic of the sort that devised those keys. The keys are a technology from the past, one lost since the Great Wars or perhaps even before. The magic of the castle and the jungle are Faerie-induced and have been resident since the time of the Word. The eels probably mutated after the Great Wars. Our adversary did not create them, but only identified them. What’s interesting is not that these traps were baited to test the strength and nature of our magic but that it was done without having to overcome the things that warded those islands. How did our adversary do that? Why didn’t it try to steal their magic, as well? Why did it choose to go to so much trouble to summon us instead?”
He nodded toward Big Red. “The reason I am leaving the Rovers aboard ship instead of taking them inland with the Elven Hunters is that I think our adversary might well try to steal our ship. It knows we are here, I expect, and how we arrived. It will know as well that if it steals the Jerle Shannara, we will be marooned and helpless. We can’t afford to let that happen. Who better to protect and defend our airship than the people who sailed and built her?”
Redden Alt Mer nodded slowly. “All right. Your argument is sound, Walker. But how will we fight this thing off if it comes after the ship? We won’t have any magic to use against it, only our blades. If it’s as powerful as you suggest—”
“After we go ashore tomorrow,” Walker interrupted quickly, holding up his hand to silence the other, “you will take the Jerle Shannara out of this bay and back down the channel toward the Squirm. Then take a bearing and fly back out over the peninsula to the coast and find the Wing Riders. When you’ve done so, bring them back to a safe haven downriver. Map your route going out so you can find your way coming back. Have the Wing Riders fly inland over this bay and the surrounding forests every day until we signal you to take us out. If you aren’t where you can be easily found, you’ll be safe enough.”
Big Red looked at his sister. Rue Meridian shrugged. “I don’t like the idea of splitting up,” he said. “I understand the reason for it, but it puts you and those with you at great risk if something goes wrong. You will be marooned if we can’t find you.”
Walker nodded. “Then we’ll have to make sure you can.”
“Or if we can’t find the Wing Riders,” Little Red added.
“The Wing Riders will find you. They will be looking for you, for the airship. Just be certain you map your route out and back carefully.”
“I’ll see that I do.” Rue Meridian held his gaze.
Bek glanced from Quentin to Ahren Elessedil to Ard Patrinell and finally to the wan, youthful face of Ryer Ord Star. There was determination and acceptance on each, but the seer’s face showed apprehension and conflict, as well. She knew something she was not telling them. Bek sensed it instinctively, as if he still held the Sword of Shannara and had brought its magic to bear, seeking out the truth, drawing back the veil of concealment the young woman held in place.
What was it she was hiding? Something of their fate? Something of what waited inland? Bek studied her surreptitiously. Had she told Walker everything? Or was she holding something back? He didn’t have any reason to ask himself that question, no cause to believe that she would conceal anything from the Druid.
But there was something in the way she distanced herself from him, from everyone …
“Let’s finish our preparations and have something to eat,” Walker said, breaking into his thoughts. “Tomorrow we set out at sunrise.”
“Good luck to you, Walker,” Rue Meridian said.
He gave her a wry smile. “Good luck to us all, Little Red.”
Then he gathered in his black robes and walked from the room.
TWENTY-NINE
Anchored well offshore and forty feet above the water, the company of the Jerle Shannara spent the night in the tree-sheltered bay. Taking no chances, Walker set a full watch—one man forward, one aft, and one in the pilot box—using Rovers so that the Elven Hunters could get a full night’s sleep and be fresh for the morning’s search. Even so, the Druid suspected that sleep was an elusive quantity that night. He slept little himself, and while pacing the corridors and decks he encountered, at one time or another, almost everyone else doing the same. Anticipation kept them all on edge and restless, and even the absence of wind and surf did nothing to ease their discomfort.
Dawn arrived in a flare of golden light that burst through the trees and across the horizon, brightening a clear blue sky and heralding a weather-perfect day. The members of the company were up and moving about almost instantly, grateful for any excuse to quit pretending that sleep might somehow come. Breakfast was consumed and weapons and provisions were gathered up. The search party gathered on deck in the early light, grim-faced and resolved, no one saying much, everyone waiting for the order to depart. Walker did not give it at once. He spent a long time conversing with Redden Alt Mer and Rue Meridian, then with Spanner Frew. They walked the length and breadth of the airship while they spoke, one or the other gesturing now and then at the ship or the surrounding forest. Bek watched them from where he sat cross-legged against the port railing, running through a list of what he carried, checking it off mentally against the list he had prepared last night. He bore virtually no weapons—a dagger and a sling—and he was less than comfortable with having only those for protection. But Walker had insisted they were all he would need or could carry, and no amount of protesting on his part had changed the Druid’s mind.
“This would be a good day for hunting,” Quentin, who was seated beside him, his gear at his feet, observed.
Bek nodded. Quentin carried a short sword at his belt, a bow and arrows over his shoulder, and the Sword of Leah strapped across his back in the Highland style. Bek supposed that if they encountered anything really dangerous, he could rely on his cousin to come to his aid.
“Do you suppose they have boar here?”
“What difference does it make?” Bek found the small talk irritating and unnecessary.
“I was just wondering.” Quentin seemed unperturbed. “It just feels a little like home to me.”
Ashamed of his disgruntled attitude, Bek forced a smile. “They have lots of boar here, and you couldn’t track a one of them without me.”
“Do tell.” Quentin arched one eyebrow. “Will I see some proof of your prowess one day soon? Or will I have to go on taking your word for it for the rest of my life?”
He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. Quentin seemed loose and easy on the outside, but Bek knew he was as anxious as the rest of them where it couldn’t be seen. The banter was a time-honored way around it, a method of dealing with it that both instinctively relied on. They had used it before, on hunts where the game they tracked was dangerous, like boar or bear, and the risk of injury was severe. It moved them a step away from thinking about what might happen if something went wrong, and it helped to prevent the kind of gradual paralysis that could steal over someone like a sickness and surface when it was too late to find an antidote.
Bek glanced across the decking to where the Elven Hunters clustered around Ard Patrinell, talking in their low, soft voices as they exchanged comments and banter of their own. Ahren Elessedil stood a little apa
rt from them, staring off into the trees, where night’s shadows still folded through the gaps in thick layers and the silence was deep and steady. Nothing of his newfound maturity was in evidence this morning. He looked like a little boy, frightened and lost, stiff with recognition of what might happen to him and fighting a losing battle against the growing certainty that it would. He carried a short sword and bow and arrows, but from the look on his face he might as well have been carrying Bek’s weapons.
Bek watched him a moment, thinking about how Ahren must feel, about the responsibility he bore as nominal leader of the expedition, then made a quick decision and climbed to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he told Quentin.
He crossed to Ahren and greeted him with a broad grin. “Another day, another adventure,” he offered brightly. “At least Ard Patrinell gave you a real sword and an ash bow.”
Ahren started at the sound of Bek’s voice, but managed to recover a little of his lost composure. “What do you mean?”
“Look what Walker gave me.” Bek gestured at his dagger and sling. “Any small birds or squirrels that come after me, I’m ready for them.”
Ahren smiled nervously. “I wish I could say the same. I can barely make my legs move. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Quentin would say you haven’t hunted enough wild boar. Look, I came over to ask a favor. I want you to keep this for me.”
Before he could think better of it, he took off the phoenix stone and its necklace and placed them about Ahren’s neck. It was an impulsive act, one he might have reconsidered if he had allowed himself time to think about it. The Elf looked down at the stone, then back at Bek questioningly.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Ahren,” Bek admitted. Then he told his friend a revised version of his encounter with the King of the Silver River and the gift of the phoenix stone, leaving out the parts about his sister and the spirit creature’s hints of the stone’s real purpose. “So I do have a little magic after all. But I’ve been keeping it a secret from everyone.” He shrugged. “Even Quentin doesn’t know about it.”
“I can’t take this from you!” Ahren declared vehemently, reaching up to remove the stone and necklace.
Bek stopped him, seizing his hands. “Yes, you can. I want you to have it.”
“But it isn’t mine! It wasn’t given to me; it was given to you! By a Faerie creature at that!” His voice softened. “It isn’t right, Bek. It doesn’t belong to me.”
“Well, it doesn’t belong to me, either. Not really. Consider it a loan. You can give it back to me later. Look, fair is fair. I have Quentin to protect me, and he has a talisman to help him do the job. You have Ard Patrinell, but he doesn’t have any magic. The Elfstones might turn up along the way, but for now, you need something else. Why not take this?”
Bek could tell that the Elf wanted to accept the gift, a talisman of real magic that would give him fresh confidence and a renewed sense of purpose. Just now, Ahren needed those things more than he did. But the Elven prince was proud, and he would not take something from Bek if he thought it was a charity that would put his friend at risk.
“I can’t,” he repeated dully.
“Could you take it if I told you that Walker has given me another magic to use, something else with which I can protect myself?” Bek kept the truth behind the lie masked in a look of complete sincerity.
Ahren shook his head doubtfully. “What magic?”
“I can’t tell you. Walker won’t let me. I’m not even supposed to tell you I have the magic. Just trust me. I wouldn’t give you the phoenix stone if it was the only real protection I had, would I?”
Which was true enough. The fact that he possessed the magic of the wishsong gave him some reassurance that by handing over the phoenix stone, he wasn’t leaving himself entirely defenseless. Anyway, the stone hadn’t been of much use to him; perhaps it would help his friend.
“Please, Ahren. Keep it. Look, if you promise to use it to help me if you see that I’m in trouble, that will be repayment enough. And I’ll do the same for you with my magic. Quentin and I already have an agreement to look out for each other. You and I can have one, too.”
He waited, holding Ahren’s uncertain gaze. Finally, the other boy nodded. “All right. But just for a while, Bek.” He ran his fingers over the stone. “It’s warm, like it’s heating from the inside out. And so smooth.” He glanced down at it a moment, then back at Bek. “I think it really is magic. But maybe we won’t have to find out. Maybe we won’t have to use it at all.”
Bek smiled agreeably, not believing his reassurances for a single moment. “Maybe not.”
“Thanks, Bek. Thanks very much.”
Bek was on his way back to Quentin when Walker stopped him amidships and turned him gently aside. “That was very foolish,” he said, not unkindly. “Well intentioned, but not particularly well advised.”
Bek faced the Druid squarely, the set of his jaw revealing his attitude on the matter. “Ahren has nothing with which to protect himself. No magic of his own, Walker. He is my friend, and I don’t see anything wrong with giving him something that might help keep him alive.”
The dark face looked away. “You weren’t listening to me as closely as I hoped when I said that magic wasn’t necessarily the key to survival here. Instincts and courage and a clear head are what will keep us alive.”
Bek stood his ground. “Well, maybe having the phoenix stone will help him find those particular attributes. What’s bothering you, Walker?”
The Druid shook his head. “So many things I don’t know where to start. But in this case, your rashness gives me pause. Giving up magic entrusted to you by the King of the Silver River may cost you more than you realize. The magic of the phoenix stone wasn’t intended as a defense. The King of the Silver River would know, as I do, that you possess the magic of the wishsong. The stone is for something else, most likely something to do with your sister. Mark me well, Bek, and retrieve it as soon as you reasonably can. Promise me.”
Only partially convinced, the boy nodded without enthusiasm. Too much of what the Druid had told him during their travels was suspect. This was no exception. No one could know the future or what it would require of a man. Not a spirit creature. Not even a seer like Ryer Ord Star. The best anyone could do was reveal glimpses out of context, and those could deceive.
“Meanwhile,” Walker said, interrupting his thoughts, “I am giving you this to carry.”
He reached beneath his black robes and produced the Sword of Shannara. It was sheathed in a soft leather scabbard, but the carving of the fist and the raised torch on the pommel were unmistakable.
Bek took it from the Druid and held it out before him, staring at it. “Do you think I will need it?”
The Druid’s smile was unexpectedly bitter. “I think we will need whatever strengths we can call upon once we are off this airship. A talisman belongs in the hands of a bearer who can wield it. In the case of the Sword of Shannara, that bearer is you.”
Bek thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right, I’ll carry it. Not because I am afraid for myself, but because maybe I can be of some use to the others. That’s the reason I went with Truls Rohk into the ruins on Mephitic. That’s the reason I agreed to use the sword at the Squirm. I came on this journey because I believed what you told me the night we met—that I could do something to help. I still believe it. I’m a part of this company, even if I don’t know for sure yet what that part might be.”
Walker bent to him. “Each of us has a part to play and all of us are still discovering what that part is. None of us is superfluous. Everyone is necessary. You are right to look out for your friends.”
He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But remember that we can do little to look out for others if we forget to look out for ourselves. In the future, don’t be too quick to discount what might be required to do that. It isn’t always apparent beforehand. It isn’t always possible to anticipate what is nee
ded.”
Bek had the distinct impression that Walker was talking about something besides the phoenix stone. But it was clear from his words that he had no intention of saying what it was. By now, the boy was used to veiled references and hidden meanings from the Druid, so he felt no real urgency to pursue the matter. Walker would tell him when he was ready and not before.
“Ahren and I made a pact to stick together,” he said instead. “So the phoenix stone won’t be far away. I can get it back from him anytime I choose.”
Walker straightened, a distant look in his dark eyes. “Time to be going, Bek. Whatever happens, remember what I said about the magic.”
He called out sharply to those waiting and beckoned them to follow.
Redden Alt Mer brought up the anchors and eased the Jerle Shannara across the still waters of the bay to a broad stretch of open shoreline. Using rope ladders, the search party descended from the airship, seventeen-strong—Walker, Bek, Quentin Leah, Panax, Ryer Ord Star, Joad Rish, Ahren Elessedil, Ard Patrinell, and nine Elven Hunters. From there, they gathered up their weapons and supplies and stood together as the airship lifted off and sailed back along the channel that had brought her in. They watched until she was out of sight, then on Walker’s command, they set out.
The Druid placed Ard Patrinell in charge, giving over to the Elf the responsibility for protecting the company. The Captain of the Home Guard sent a young woman named Tamis, a tracker, ahead some fifty yards to scout the way in and placed an Elven Hunter to either side to guard their flanks. The rest of the company he grouped by twos, placing Walker in the vanguard and Panax in the rear, with Elven Hunters warding them both. Quentin was given responsibility for the center of the formation and those who were not trained fighters, Joad Rish and Ryer Ord Star and Bek in particular.
Walker glanced at the boy from time to time as they proceeded, trying to take his measure, to judge how Bek felt about himself now that he knew so much more. It was difficult to do. Bek seemed to have adapted well enough to his increased responsibility for use of the magic of the wishsong and the Sword of Shannara. But Bek was a complex personality, not easily read, and it remained to be seen how he would react to the demands that his heritage might require of him down the road. As of now, he had only scratched the surface of what he could or would in all probability be asked to do. The boy simply didn’t understand yet how enmeshed in all this he was and what that was likely to mean to him. Nor was there any easy or safe way to tell him.
