The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  There was no reason for it. If anyone was on deck searching for them, they would have been seen. The moonlight was too clear and bright for any other result. Yet the Galaphile swung sharply to port and away, flying back toward the shoreline of Rainbow Lake, an act so unexpected and improbable that it left Pen open-mouthed.

  “Tagwen!” he whispered harshly, groping for the other’s shoulder.

  The Dwarf awoke with a start, scrambling into a sitting position as he struggled to figure out what was happening. Pen steadied him with his hand, drew his attention, then pointed at the retreating airship. Tagwen stared at it, confusion and shock mirrored on his rough features.

  “It was right in front of us,” Pen explained, keeping his voice to a whisper. “I had a dream about it, came up on deck, and there it was! Right there! It had us, Tagwen. It couldn’t have missed us, sitting out like this in the moonlight, even at night. But it did. All at once, it just turned and flew off.”

  He knelt next to the Dwarf, taking quick, short breaths, feeling light-headed. “What happened? Why didn’t it see us?”

  “Perhaps it didn’t recognize you,” a voice replied from behind them.

  For the second time in only minutes, Pen experienced heart failure, jumping with the unexpected sound, almost falling over Tagwen, who was just as startled. Crouched in one corner of the pilot box, man and boy turned to see who had spoken.

  An old man stood looking at them, an ancient so bent and gnarled that it seemed impossible he could have managed to climb aboard. He braced himself with a polished black staff that glistened like deep waters in moonlight, and his robes were so white they gleamed like the moon itself. Long gray hair and a heavy beard fell about his chest and shoulders, and his eyes had an oddly childlike twinkle to them, as if the old man had never quite grown up all the way.

  Pen, recovering from the shock of finding him there, said, “Why wouldn’t they recognize us?”

  “Sometimes things don’t look quite the way we expect them to,” the old man said. “Especially at night, when shadows drape the world and mask the truth.”

  “We were right out in the open,” Pen persisted. He stood up again, deciding there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at the ancient’s strange eyes, finding himself drawn to something reflected in them, something that reminded him of himself, though he couldn’t say what. “Did you do something to make them not see us?”

  The old man smiled. “Penderrin Ohmsford. I knew your father, years ago. He came looking for something, too. I helped him find what it was. Now, it seems, it is your turn.”

  “My turn?” Pen stared at him. “How do you know who I am? My father didn’t tell you, did he? No, this was before I was born, wasn’t it?”

  The old man nodded, amused. “Your father was still a boy, just as you are now.”

  Tagwen struggled to his feet, straightening his rumpled clothes and squaring his stocky body away. “Who are you?” he asked boldly. “What are you doing out here? How do you know so much about Pen and his father?”

  “So many questions,” the old man said softly. “Life is full of them, and we spend it seeking their answers, first of one, then of another. It is our passion, as thinking creatures, to do so. Do you not know me, Tagwen? You are of the Dwarf people, and the Dwarf people have known me for centuries.”

  But it was Pen who answered, hesitating only a moment before saying, “I know who you are. The King of the Silver River. My father told me of you—how you came to him when he was traveling with my uncle, Quentin Leah, into the Eastland. You showed him a vision of my aunt, before he knew she was his sister. You gave him a phoenix stone to help protect him on his journey across the Blue Divide.”

  All who resided in the Four Lands knew the legend of the King of the Silver River, though not all believed it. He was said to be a Faerie creature, as old as the Word itself, come into being at the same time and made part of the world in its infancy. The last of his kind, he was caretaker of wondrous gardens hidden somewhere in the Silver River country, a place where no humans were allowed. He was seen now and then by travelers, always in different forms. Sometimes he would give aid to them when they were lost or in peril. He had done as much for several generations of Ohmsfords, going all the way back to Shea and Flick, in the time of the Druid Allanon. Others in the Four Lands might doubt his existence, but those like Bek, who had encountered him, and Pen, who had heard his father’s story, did not.

  “Well spoken, Penderrin,” the old man said. “You are clearly your father’s son. What we must determine now is if your courage is a match for his.” He came forward in a sort of half shuffle, stopping at the pilot box steps. “Are you brave enough to undertake a journey to find your missing aunt and bring her safely home again?”

  Pen glanced quickly at Tagwen, searching for reassurance and finding only surprise and confusion. It was what he should have expected. No one could answer such a question for him.

  “She badly needs you to do this,” the King of the Silver River assured him. “She is trapped in a very dangerous place, and she cannot get home again without your help. No one can save her but you, Penderrin. It is an odd set of circumstances that makes this so, but it is the way of things nevertheless.”

  Tagwen grunted. “This boy is the only one who can help the Ard Rhys? No one else? What about his parents? What about his father, Bek Ohmsford? He has the same magic as his sister, a very powerful magic, to assist him. Surely, he should be the one to make this journey.”

  The old man leaned more heavily on the black staff and cocked his head as if seriously considering the question. His gaze was distant and just a little sad.

  “Often, it is the least likely among us who is in a position to accomplish the most. It is so here. Bek Ohmsford cannot help his sister this time. Penderrin is just a boy, and it would seem impossible that a boy would be best able to save so powerful a wielder of magic as Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys and Ilse Witch. Certainly those who have sent her to her prison would never think it possible. Perhaps that is why they have overlooked him. In truth, they think it is his parents they need to fear, and so seek them out, just as you do.”

  “I knew it!” Tagwen exclaimed angrily. “It was Shadea a’Ru and Terek Molt and the rest of them! They’ve done this to her!”

  He was practically beside himself, and Pen felt compelled to put a cautioning hand on his shoulder, but the Dwarf barely seemed aware of him. He stamped his foot furiously. “Vipers! Treacherous snakes! Kermadec was right all along! She should have rid herself of the lot of them long ago and none of this would have happened!”

  The King of the Silver River passed his hand in front of the Dwarf’s eyes, causing him to sigh heavily and grow calm again. “It isn’t as simple as that, Tagwen. In fact, there are others responsible, as well, others who are from different places and pursue different goals. But the most dangerous of those who would see the Ard Rhys destroyed is someone of whom the others are not even aware. That one plays the others as a master does his puppets, pulling the strings that guide their actions. Wheels within wheels, secrets yet unrecognized. The danger is far greater than it appears, and it threatens far more than the life of the Ard Rhys. Yet she is the key to restoring a balance, to making things right again. She must be returned to the Four Lands in order for everything else that is necessary to happen.” He looked at Penderrin. “You alone can bring that to pass.”

  Pen sighed, thinking that only a day ago he was wondering how to best pass the time in Patch Run until his parents returned. He had been anxious for an adventure, eager to be with them in the Wolfsktaag, to be a part of their lives as guides of an expedition. Now he was being recruited to undertake an expedition of his own, one that appeared to be far more dangerous than theirs. How quickly things changed.

  “What is it you want me to do?” he asked.

  The King of the Silver River climbed the steps to the pilot box, not in a weary shuffle, but in a smooth, effortless glide. One wrinkled hand came to rest on the boy’s
shoulder. “You must abandon your efforts to find your parents; they cannot help you in this. If it were possible for them to do so, I would have gone to them first. I shall speak with them in any case to warn them of the danger from your enemies. But your parents’ time is past, Penderrin; it is your time now. You must go in search of your aunt without them, and you must do so at once.”

  “Then I shall go with him,” Tagwen declared bravely. “Finding the Ard Rhys is my responsibility, too.”

  The King of the Silver River glanced at him appraisingly, then nodded. “You will make a good and loyal companion, Tagwen,” he said. His eyes shifted back to Pen. “Such companions will be needed. Find them where you will, but choose them with caution.”

  He leaned forward, and his thin, aged voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. “Listen carefully. A potion has been used against the Ard Rhys, a magic of great power. The potion is called liquid night. It has imprisoned your aunt in another place, one that cannot be reached by ordinary means. A talisman to negate its magic is needed. The required talisman is a darkwand. It is a conjuring stick and must be fashioned by hand from the limb of a tree called a tanequil. The tanequil is sentient; it is a living, breathing creature. It will give up a limb only if it is persuaded of the need for doing so. It must act freely. Taking the limb by force will destroy the magic that it bears. Someone must communicate with the tanequil in a language it can comprehend. Someone must explain to it why its limb is so important. Penderrin, you have the gift of magic, the talent with which you were born, to do this.”

  Pen was speechless. He was being told that his little magic, which he had repeatedly dismissed as being virtually useless, was suddenly his most important possession. He could hardly believe it, but the old man’s words bore weight, and he could not bring himself to dismiss them out of hand.

  “How will I know what to do?” he asked. Even if he wasn’t sure yet whether he would go—and he most certainly wasn’t—he had to know what was needed if he did. “How will I know what language to speak to it or how to shape this darkwand from its limb?”

  The King of the Silver River smiled. “I cannot tell you that. No one can. But you will know, Penderrin. When it is time, you will know. You will understand what to do, and you will find a way to do it.”

  “Well, we have to find this tree first,” Tagwen interjected, huffing doubtfully. “How do we do that? Is it far away?”

  “The tanequil grows in a forest on an island deep in the Charnal Mountains. To reach it, you must pass through gardens that were once the center of an ancient city called Stridegate. Trolls and Urdas inhabit the surrounding forests and foothills. They will know the way to enter and pass through.”

  Pen shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do this.” He looked at Tagwen. “I’ve never even been out of the Borderlands.”

  “I don’t know if you can, either,” Tagwen replied. His bearded face was scrunched up like crumpled paper. “But I think you have to try, Pen. What else can you do? You can’t abandon her.”

  He was right, of course, but Pen was beset with doubts. The Charnal Mountains were more dangerous than the Black Oaks, and to try to penetrate them with as little experience as he had and not even a sense of where to go seemed foolish.

  The King of the Silver River sighed with what seemed deep regret. “Life offers few certainties, Penderrin. This journey is not one of them. Hear me out, for there is more to know. What I have told you is only a first step. Your journey begins with your search for the tanequil. It begins with your shaping of a darkwand. But it ends in another place altogether. The darkwand must be taken to Paranor and the chamber of the Ard Rhys. There, the talisman’s magic will give you passage through the curtain of liquid night to where the Ard Rhys has been imprisoned. Only you, Penderrin, and you alone. No other may go with you. Not even Tagwen. When you find your aunt, the darkwand will give you passage back again—you, because you bear the wand, and your aunt, because the magic of the wand negates that of the liquid night.”

  He paused. “But remember, no other may pass. The magic’s thread is slender and fragile, and it cannot be rewoven or lengthened to accommodate others. Passage over allows passage back, but there can be no deviations. There can be no exceptions.”

  Pen was not at all sure why the other was making such a point of this, but he thought it was in reference to something very specific, something that the old man did not want to reveal in greater detail. That was in keeping with what he knew to be true about the ways of the ancients, the Faerie creatures who were the first people. They spoke in riddles and always held something back. It was in their nature, very much as it was in the nature of the Druids, and that would never change.

  What should he do?

  He looked into the eyes of the old man, then at Tagwen’s rough face, and then off into the night, where possibilities were still shaping themselves and dreams still held sway. He had never been put in a position where so much depended on a decision and the decision must be made so quickly.

  Then, almost without thinking about it, he put aside his objections and concerns as secondary to his aunt’s needs. He stood staring down at the wooden deck of the pilot box for a moment, measuring the depth of his commitment. It all came down to the same thing, he supposed. If their positions were reversed, would his aunt do for him what he was being asked to do for her? Even without knowing her any better than he did, he was certain of the answer.

  “All right,” he said softly, “I’ll go.”

  He looked up again. The King of the Silver River nodded. “And you will come back again, Penderrin. I see it in your eyes, just as I saw it more than twenty years ago in your father’s.”

  Pen took a deep breath, thinking that what was mirrored in his eyes was probably more on the order of bewilderment. So much had happened so quickly, and he was not sure yet that he understood it all or even that he ever would. He wished he had more confidence in himself, but he supposed you got that only by testing yourself against your doubts.

  “Where has my aunt been imprisoned?” he asked the old man suddenly. “Where do I have to go to find her?”

  The King of the Silver River went very still then, so still that at first it seemed as if he had been turned to stone and could not speak. He took a long time to consider the boy’s question, his ancient face a mask of conflicting emotions. The silence deepened and turned brittle with suspense.

  The longer Pen waited for a response, the more certain he became that he would wish he hadn’t asked.

  He was not mistaken.

  When the King of the Silver River had gone, Penderrin slept, exhausted by the day’s ordeal. He woke again to sunshine and blue sky, to soft breezes blowing off the Rainbow Lake, and to birdsong and crickets. Tagwen was already hard at work, clearing away the debris from their landing. Pen joined the Dwarf in his efforts, neither of them saying much as they labored. They cut away the mast, then found a suitable tree from which to fashion a new one. It took them most of the day to shape it, then set it in place. By the time it was firmly attached to the cat, the sun had gone west and the shadows were lengthening.

  They ate dinner on the deck of the airship, a patched-together meal of foodstuffs left aboard from an earlier outing, fresh water and foraged greens. Fish would have helped, but they would have had to eat it raw since neither was willing to risk a fire. They had not seen the Galaphile since the previous night, and they believed themselves safe from it there in the lands of the King of the Silver River, but there was no point in taking chances.

  Dinner was almost finished before Pen spoke about the previous night. By then, he had spent the better part of the day thinking it through, repeating the words of the King of the Silver River in his mind, trying to make them seem real.

  “Did it all happen the way I think it did, Tagwen?” he asked finally, almost afraid of what he was going to hear. “I didn’t imagine it?”

  “Not unless I imagined it, too,” the Dwarf replied.

  “Then I agre
ed to go find my aunt?”

  “And me with you.”

  Pen shook his head helplessly. “What have I done? I’m not up to this. I don’t even know where to make a start.”

  Tagwen laughed softly. “I’ve been giving it some thought, since I saw how dazed you were last night. One of us needed to keep a clear head. You may have the means to secure this darkwand, but I have the means to look out for us. I think I know what we need to do first.”

  “You do?” Pen didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “What?”

  The Dwarf grinned and pointed toward the setting sun. “We go west, Penderrin, to the Elven village of Emberen.”

  TEN

  She awoke to the sound of weasel voices, raspy and sly, the words indistinguishable one from the other. The voices giggled and snickered, little taunts intended to disparage her, to make her feel vulnerable and weak. She listened to them from within layers of cotton that wrapped about her like a chrysalis. The voices hissed with laughter. She was a nameless corpse, they whispered, an empty shell from which the life had been leeched away, a body consigned to the earth’s dark breast for burial.

  She fought against a sudden stab of panic. She was Grianne Ohmsford, she told herself in an act of reassurance. She was alive and well. She was only dreaming. She was asleep in her bed, and she remembered …

  She drew a sharp, frightened breath, and her certainties were gone as quickly as the voices, disappeared like smoke.

  Something had happened.

  Still wrapped in cotton that filled her head and mouth, that bound up her thoughts and clogged her reason, she tried to move her arms and legs. She could do so, but only with great effort. She was terribly weak and her body was responding as if she had slept not for one night but for a hundred. She brought one hand to her breast and found she was still wearing her nightclothes, but no blankets covered her. The air smelled stale and dead, and she could not feel even the smallest trace of a breeze. Yet where she slept within the towers of Paranor, there was always a breeze and the air smelled of the trees, fresh and green.