by Terry Brooks
“What am I supposed to do with these two?” the Dwarf asked when they had seated themselves.
Garet Jax turned to his companions. “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he? He was with me ten years ago when I was training Dwarf Hunters for a border skirmish along the Wolfsktaag. He was with me again in Callahorn a few years back. That’s why I’m here now. He asked me to come, and he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
He looked back at Foraker. “The Valeman is Jair Ohmsford. He’s looking for his sister and a Druid.”
Foraker leaned back frowning. “A Druid? What Druid? There aren’t any Druids anymore. Haven’t been any Druids since …”
“I know—since Allanon,” Jair interjected, unable to keep still any longer. “That’s the Druid I’m looking for.”
Foraker stared at him. “That right? What makes you think you’ll find him here?”
“He told me that he would be going into the Eastland. He took my sister with him.”
“Your sister?” The Dwarf’s brows were fiercely knit. “Allanon and your sister? And they’re supposed to be here somewhere?”
Jair nodded slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Foraker looked at him as if he were crazy. Then he looked at Garet Jax.
“Where did you find this Valeman?”
“On the way,” the other replied vaguely. “What do you know about the Druid?”
Foraker shrugged. “I know that no one has seen Allanon in the Eastland for more than twenty years—with or without anybody’s sister.”
“Well, you don’t know much, then,” Slanter spoke up suddenly, the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice. “The Druid’s come and gone right under your nose!”
Foraker’s fierce countenance swung around on the speaker. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Gnome.”
“This one supposedly tracked the Druid out of the Eastland,” Garet Jax offered, gray eyes wandering off casually about the empty hall. “Tracked him from the Maelmord right to the Valeman’s doorstep.”
Foraker stared at him. “I’ll ask again—what exactly am I supposed to do with these two?”
Garet Jax looked back at him. “I’ve been thinking about that. Does the Council meet tonight?”
“Every night, these days.”
“Then let the Valeman speak to them.”
Foraker frowned. “Why should I do that?”
“Because he has something to tell them that I think they’re going to want to hear. And not just about the Druid.”
Dwarf and Weapons Master eyed each other in silence. “I’ll have to make a request,” Foraker said at last, his lack of enthusiasm evident.
“Now seems like a good time to do it.” Garet Jax rose to his feet.
Foraker sighed and stood up with him, glancing down at Jair and Slanter as he did so. “You two can eat your meal and stay put. Don’t try wandering off.” He hesitated. “I don’t know anything about a Druid passing through, but I’ll look into it for you, Ohmsford.” He shook his head. “Come along, Garet.”
The Dwarf and the Weapons Master left the eating hall. Jair and Slanter sat alone at the table, lost in thought. Where was Allanon? Jair asked himself in silent desperation, head lowered to study his hands as he clasped them before him. The Druid had said he was going into the Eastland. Wouldn’t he come through Culhaven? If he hadn’t, then where had he gone? Where had he taken Brin?
A Dwarf in a white bib apron brought them plates of hot food and cups of ale, and they began to eat. No one said anything. The minutes slipped past as they consumed the meal, and Jair felt his hopes fading with each bite he took—as if somehow he were consuming the answers his questions demanded. Pushing the plate back from where he sat, he scuffed one boot against the plank flooring nervously and tried to decide what he would do if Elb Foraker were right and Allanon and Brin had indeed not come this way.
“Stop that!” Slanter growled suddenly.
Jair glanced up. “Stop what?”
“Stop rubbing your boot against the floor. It’s annoying.”
“Sorry.”
“And quit looking like you’d lost your best friend. Your sister will turn up.”
Jair shook his head slowly, still distracted. “Maybe.”
“Humph,” the Gnome muttered. “I’m the one who should be worrying—not you. I don’t know how I ever let you talk me into this fool’s errand.”
Jair propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. There was determination in his voice. “Even if Brin didn’t come through Culhaven, even if Allanon went another way, we’ve still got to go into the Anar, Slanter. And we’ve got to persuade the Dwarves to help us.”
Slanter stared at him. “We? Us? You’d better take a moment and rethink that ‘we and us’ nonsense! I’m not going anywhere but back to where I came from before I got involved in this whole mess!”
“You’re a tracker, Slanter,” Jair said quietly. “I need you.”
“Too bad,” the Gnome snapped, his rough yellow face suddenly dark. “I’m also a Gnome, in case you hadn’t noticed! Did you see the way they looked at me out there? Did you see those children looking at me like I was some sort of wild animal brought in from the forest? Use your head! There’s a war going on between Gnomes and Dwarves, and the Dwarves aren’t likely to listen to anything you have to say so long as you persist in making me your ally! Which I’m not, in any case!”
Jair bent forward. “Slanter, I have to reach Heaven’s Well before Brin reaches the Maelmord. How am I going to do that without someone to guide me in?”
“You’ll find a way, knowing you.” The Gnome brushed the matter aside. “Besides, I can’t go back there anymore. Spilk will have told them what I did. Or if not him, then that other Gnome that ran off. They’ll be looking for me. If I go back, someone will recognize me. When I’m caught, the walkers …” He stopped abruptly and threw up his hands. “I’m not going and that’s that!”
He went back to eating his food, his head lowered to his plate. Jair regarded him silently, wondering if perhaps he were making a mistake in seeking Slanter’s help in the first place; perhaps the King of the Silver River hadn’t intended him as an ally after all. Slanter didn’t really seem like much of an ally when you thought about it. He was altogether too clever, too opportunistic, and his loyalty changed as often as the wind. He wasn’t one to be depended on, was he? Yet despite all that, there was still something about the Gnome that Jair liked. Maybe it was his toughness. Like Garet Jax, Slanter was a survivor, and that was the sort of companion Jair needed if he were to reach the deep Anar.
He watched as the Gnome drank down the last of the ale in noisy gulps, then said quietly. “I thought you wanted to learn about the magic.”
Slanter shook his head. “Not anymore. I’ve learned all I care to know about you, boy.”
Jair frowned in annoyance. “I think you’re just scared.”
“Think what you like. I’m not going.”
“What about your people? Don’t you care what the Mord Wraiths are doing to them?”
Slanter’s eyes snapped up. “I don’t have a people anymore, thanks to you!” Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, though. I haven’t really had a people since I left the Eastland. I’m my own people.”
“That’s not true. The Gnomes are your people. You went back to help them, didn’t you?”
“Times change. I went back because it was the smart thing to do. Now I’m not going back because that’s the smart thing to do!” Slanter was growing angry. “Why don’t you just give it up, boy? I’ve done enough for you already. I don’t feel obliged to do anything further. After all, the King of the Silver River didn’t give me any Silver Dust to help clean up his river!”
“That’s fortunate, isn’t it?” Jair flushed, a bit angry now himself. “A fat lot of good you’d be, changing sides every five minutes when things got a little rough! I thought you helped me back in the Oaks because you’d made a choice! I thought you cared what happened to me! Well, maybe I
was wrong! What do you care about, Slanter?”
The Gnome was nonplussed. “I care about staying alive. That’s what you’d care about, too, if you had any brains.”
Jair went rigid with indignation. He came halfway out of his seat, arms braced on the table. “Staying alive! Well, just exactly how are you going to do that when the Mord Wraiths poison the Eastland and then move west into the other lands? That’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it? That’s what you said! Where will you run to then? Plan on changing sides one time more—become a Gnome again long enough to fool the walkers?”
Slanter reached up and shoved Jair back. “You have a big mouth for someone who understands so little about life. Maybe if you’d been out in the world looking after yourself instead of having someone do it for you, you’d not be so quick to point the finger at others. Now, shut up!”
Jair lapsed into immediate silence. There was nothing to be gained by pushing the matter any further. Slanter had made up his mind not to help, so that was the end of it. He was probably better off without the Gnome anyway.
The two were still glowering at each other when Garet Jax returned a few moments later. He was alone, and he came directly to where they sat. If he noticed the tension between them, he gave no indication of it. He took a seat next to Jair.
“You’re to go before the Council of Elders,” he said quietly.
Jair shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about this. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”
The Weapons Master pinned him with his eyes. “You don’t have a choice.”
“What about Brin? And Allanon?”
“There is no news of them. Foraker checked, and they haven’t been to Culhaven. No one knows anything about them.” The gray eyes studied the Valeman intently. “Whatever help you’re to find in this quest of yours, you’ll have to find it on your own.”
Jair glanced quickly at Slanter, but the Gnome refused to meet his gaze. He turned back to Garet Jax. “When do I go before the Council?”
The Weapons Master stood up. “Now.”
The Dwarf Council of Elders had convened in the Assembly, a large and cavernous hall settled within the bowels of a squarish building that housed all of the offices governing the affairs of the village of Culhaven. Twelve strong, the members of the Council sat behind a long table on a dais at the head of the chamber and looked down upon rows of benches separated by aisles that ran back to a pair of wide double-doors leading in. It was through these doors that Garet Jax brought Jair and Slanter. Shadows cloaked all but the very forefront of the Assembly, where oil lamps cast their harsh yellow light across the dais. The three who entered made their way to the edge of the light and stopped. A gathering of others occupied seats on the benches closest to the dais, and heads lifted and turned at their approach. A haze of pipe smoke hung over the men gathered, and the pungent smell of burning tobacco filled the air.
“Come forward,” a voice called.
They proceeded until they stood even with the foremost line of benches. Jair glanced around uneasily. The faces that stared back at him were not simply the faces of Dwarves. A handful of Elves sat immediately to his right, and half a dozen Bordermen from Callahorn far to his left. Foraker was there as well, black-bearded face dour and set as he leaned against the far wall.
“Welcome to Culhaven,” the voice spoke again.
The speaker rose from behind the table on the dais. He was a gray-bearded Dwarf of some years, rough-faced and bluff, skin browned and lined in the harsh light of the lamps. He stood centermost among the Elders at the Council.
“My name is Browork, Elder and citizen of Culhaven, First at this Council,” he informed them. His hand lifted and beckoned to Jair. “Come forward, Valeman.”
Jair came toward him a step or two and stopped, glancing at the line of faces that looked down at him. All were aged and weathered, yet with eyes still quick and alert as they studied him.
“Your name?” Browork asked him.
“Jair Ohmsford,” he replied. “Of Shady Vale.”
The Dwarf nodded. “What would you say to us, Jair Ohmsford?”
Jair glanced about. The faces all about him waited expectantly—faces he did not know. Should he reveal what he knew to them? He looked back at the Elder.
“You may speak freely,” Browork assured him, sensing his concern. “All gathered here are to be trusted; all are leaders in the fight against the Mord Wraiths.”
He sat down again slowly and waited. Jair looked about once more, then took a deep breath and began to speak. Step by step, he revealed all that had happened since the arrival of Allanon in Shady Vale those many nights past. He told of the Druid’s coming, of his warning of the Mord Wraiths, of his need for Brin, and of their departure east. He described his subsequent flight, the adventures that had befallen him in the highlands and the Black Oaks, his meeting with the King of the Silver River, and the prophecy foretold by the legendary King. It took him some time to tell it all. While he spoke, the men gathered about him stayed silent. He could not bring himself to look at them; he was frightened of what he might see in their faces. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the seams and hollows that molded Browork’s weathered countenance and the deep-set blue eyes that stared fixedly back at him.
When at last he was finished, the Dwarf Elder leaned forward slowly, his rough hands folding on the table before him, his gaze still holding Jair’s.
“Twenty years ago, I fought with Allanon to keep the Demon hordes from the Elven city of Arborlon. It was a terrible battle. Young Edain Elessedil—” He indicated with his hand a blond-haired Elf barely older than Brin. “—was not even born then. His grandfather, the great Eventine, was King of the Elves. That was when Allanon last walked the Four Lands. Not since that time has the Druid been seen, Valeman. He has not come to Culhaven. He has not come to the Eastland. What say you to that?”
Jair shook his head. “I don’t know why he didn’t come this way. I don’t know where he has gone. I only know where it is that he goes—and my sister with him. And I know, too, that he has indeed been within the Eastland.” He turned toward Slanter. “This Hunter tracked him from the Maelmord west to my home.”
He waited for confirmation, but Slanter said nothing.
“No one has seen Allanon for twenty years,” another Elder of the Council repeated quietly.
“And no one has ever spoken with the King of the Silver River,” a third said.
“I spoke with him,” Jair said. “And my father also spoke with him. He helped my father and an Elf girl flee the Demons to Arborlon.”
Browork continued to study him. “I know of your father, youngster. He did come to Arborlon to aid the Elves in their fight against the Demons. It was rumored that he was the possessor of Elfstones, just as you have said. But you say that you took the Elfstones from your home and then gave them up to the King of the Silver River?”
“In exchange for magic I could use,” Jair affirmed quickly. “For a wish I could use to save Brin. For a vision crystal to find her. And for strength for those who would help me.”
Browork glanced now at Garet Jax. The Weapons Master nodded. “I have seen the crystal of which he speaks. It is magic. It did show to us the face of a girl—one he says is his sister.”
The Elf identified as Edain Elessedil came suddenly to his feet. He was tall and fair-skinned, his blond hair reaching to his shoulders. “My father has spoken to me of Wil Ohmsford many times. He has said that he is an honorable man. I do not think a son of his would speak anything but the truth.”
“Unless he mistook fantasy for truth,” one of the Council suggested. “This tale is difficult to swallow.”
“But the waters of the river are indeed fouled,” another pointed out. “We all know that in some way the Mord Wraiths poison them in an effort to destroy us.”
“As you say, common knowledge,” replied the first. “Hardly proof of anything.”
Other voices rose now, arguing the merits of Jair’s
tale. Browork raised his hands sharply.
“Peace, Elders! Give thought to what we are about!” He turned back to Jair. “Your quest, if it be true, requires that we give you aid. You cannot succeed without that aid, Valeman. Armies of Gnomes lie between you and the thing you seek—this place you call Heaven’s Well. Understand, too, that none among us have ever been where you would go or seen the source of the waters of the Silver River.” He glanced about for confirmation; heads nodded and no one spoke in contradiction. “For us to help you then, we must first be certain of what we do. We must believe. How are we to believe a thing of which we have no personal knowledge? How are we to know what you tell us is the truth?”
“I would not lie,” Jair insisted, flushing.
“Not knowingly, perhaps,” the Elder mused. “Yet all lies are not intended. Sometimes what we believe to be truth is but a falsehood which deceives us. Perhaps that is what has happened here. Perhaps …”
“Perhaps if we waste enough time talking about it, it will be too late to do anything to help Brin!” Jair lost his temper completely. “I have not been deceived in anything! What I spoke of happened!”
The voices murmured in dissatisfaction, but immediately Browork signaled for quiet. “Show to us this pouch of Silver Dust that we might gain some measure of belief in what you say,” he ordered.
The Valeman stared at him helplessly. “It will not aid you. The dust appears as common sand.”
“Sand?” One of the Council members shook his head in disgust. “We are wasting our time, Browork.”
“Let us at least see the crystal, then,” Browork sighed.
“Or prove to us in some other way that what you say is true,” another demanded.
Jair felt his chance of convincing the Dwarves of anything slipping rapidly away. Few, if any, of the Council believed what he was telling them. They had seen nothing of Allanon or Brin; none of them had ever heard of anyone speaking with the King of the Silver River; for all he knew, they didn’t even believe that such a being existed. Now he was telling them he had given away Elfstones for magics they could not even see.
