High Druid's Blade : The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

by Brooks, Terry

  So he went, walking down to the airfield with his sword strapped across his back and his travel pack slung over one shoulder, less certain of what he was doing than either his sister or his mother, but doing his best not to show it. Sebec’s vessel was a Rover-crafted double-mast with good lines and black-dyed light sheaths bearing the emblem of the Fourth Druid Order emblazoned in gold. A crew of three awaited them—Trolls serving in the Druid Guard, chosen by the Ard Rhys herself from among volunteers who all came from the same village in the Northland and whose ancestors had served in the guard before them. Big, hulking men, they spoke not a word to either Sebec or Paxon, but simply went about their business, hoisting sails, tying off lines, powering up the diapson crystals in their parse tubes, and setting out.

  They flew through the remainder of the day, crossing the broad expanse of the Rainbow Lake, navigating the blunt peaks of the Runne Mountains, sliding down the jagged length of the Dragon’s Teeth to the Kennon Pass, and completing their journey to Paranor by midnight.

  By then, Sebec had recounted to Paxon a great deal about the work of the current Druid order, which far exceeded anything Paxon might have imagined. Most of what he knew had to do with the order’s ongoing efforts to find and retrieve errant and lost magic throughout the Four Lands. Sebec mentioned this in passing and quickly moved on. Those who joined the order did so to learn magic and to assist with its care and protection, but they were required to complete many other duties, as well. Upkeep of Paranor was a major effort, much of it undertaken by the Trolls of the Druid Guard, but some tasks required the more skilled and talented hands of the members of the order themselves, particularly in the rooms where the records and books were stored and in such chambers as the cold room and the Tower Watch. The older members of the order offered daily instruction, and the younger were required to attend and practice what they learned. Reading the Druid Histories was a part of training, mandating a familiarity with the events that had led the order to its present state, from the inception of the First Druid Order to the present.

  “Before anyone can begin to master the use of magic—even in the smallest of ways—they first have to understand the nature of its usage,” Sebec explained. “How was it created in the first place? What was its intended use? Does it always function as it should? Is it reliable? Are there ways to keep it in check that will protect not only the user but also those nearby?” He smiled. “It’s complicated, but fascinating.”

  It didn’t work that way for me with the sword, Paxon thought.

  There were visits to the cities of the Four Lands to learn of their histories and cultures, including meetings with their leaders and governing councils. Avenues of communication were opened and maintained, with an emphasis on a sharing of information and ideas. The secrecy that had once shrouded the Druid order was slowly but steadily being removed as an obstacle to better relations with all of the Races, and cooperation was being fostered on all fronts.

  “We don’t hide behind our walls anymore,” Sebec continued. “We work side by side with people and governments in all of the Four Lands. Even the Federation.”

  But Paxon had heard that relations with the Federation and most of the lower Southland were still tense. There was a willingness to communicate, but mostly he sensed that both Druids and Federation officials wanted to keep an eye on each other. It didn’t help that the Federation had outlawed all use or possession of magic in the Southland or that its avowed goal was to do away with magic entirely and turn back the clock to the days when science was the dominant tool for stimulating progress in the world.

  That view wasn’t universally shared, as the other lands remained reticent about both, but there were indications that opinion was swinging in that direction.

  The hours passed and the young Druid talked on about the work of the order while Paxon listened and considered. After it started to get dark, they ate a dinner of meat and vegetables heated over a small brazier along with bread and ale, all of it shared with the Trolls. Paxon had seen enough of Trolls in his lifetime not to be taken aback by being in their midst, but he was intimidated nevertheless, by both their size and their rough look. They wore tunics with the Druid insignia woven into the fabric on the left panel with scarlet thread, and all of them carried weapons.

  Sebec made no mention of Paxon’s sword. Not once. He rarely even glanced at it, seemingly caught up in discussing the work of the Druids. But Paxon still worried about what he would do if the order tried to take the sword away from him. How would he respond? He could not let them do it, but how far was he willing to go to prevent it from happening?

  By midnight, when the lights of Paranor began to appear, Paxon was nodding off, his eyes heavy and his body lethargic. But his first sight of the Druid’s Keep brought him awake again in a hurry. The very size of it took his breath away. Massive walls, great towers soaring skyward, clusters of buildings sprawling over acres of ground, the whole of it made dark and shadowed by the ancient trees of the surrounding forest—the Keep was overwhelming. Sebec was at his side to point out which rooms each building housed, eager either to display his knowledge or to further intimidate a first-time visitor, Paxon wasn’t sure which. Perhaps both. Whatever the case, the Highlander couldn’t take his eyes off the complex, scanning everywhere, searching out shapes and forms through the shadows, imagining what was there that he couldn’t see, hoping he would be given a chance to find out before he was sent away again.

  The sloop set down on an elevated landing platform, and Sebec led him off the vessel and down a ramp to a doorway opening into a tower connected to the main building. From there, he led him downstairs to where the guest quarters were located, choosing a door midway along a corridor of matching doors and guiding him inside. The room had a bed, a table next to it, a dresser with a washbasin and towels, and a single window that looked out on a courtyard one story below.

  “This is your room,” Sebec said. “Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you will see the Ard Rhys and visit with her. I will come for you when it is time. Sleep well.”

  Then he went out the door, closing it behind him.

  Paxon looked around the room, dropped his bag, pulled the drapes, stripped off his travel clothes, washed, and climbed into the bed.

  He was asleep in seconds.

  When he woke the following morning, the sun was just coming up over the eastern wall of the Keep, a brilliant gold light in a clear blue sky. He lay where he was for a few minutes, languishing in the bedding, enjoying the feeling of comfort and ease, then rose and walked to the window to peek through the curtains. Sunlight filled the courtyard below, and several black-robed figures were at work in the gardens. He stared down at them for a moment, but when he heard voices in the hallway he turned away to wash and dress.

  He was just preparing to depart for a look around when a knock at the door and a greeting announced the arrival of Sebec. “One minute,” he answered.

  Glancing over to where the Sword of Leah lay across the bed, he made a quick decision. He would take it with him. Leaving it behind was just asking for trouble. If he was going to lose it, they would have to take it from him by force and not through subterfuge or carelessness.

  Strapping it across his back, he went out the door to join Sebec.

  Together, they walked down to a dining room in which a handful of Druids and Trolls were eating breakfast. Sebec had them sit apart from everyone else, perhaps because he felt Paxon would be more comfortable that way. But it also gave them a chance to talk freely, and Paxon had more questions by now about the Druids. Sebec answered all but one—he declined to say anything further about what the Ard Rhys intended to talk to him about. Mostly, he claimed not to know. The Ard Rhys would speak for herself, and it was not his place to speculate about what she would say.

  Paxon, though impatient with the secrecy, did not press him. Instead, he accepted the answers he was given, enjoyed his breakfast, and tried as best he could to prepare himself for what was coming.

  When th
e meal was finished, Sebec took him from the dining room deep into the interior of the building, across a narrow bridge to a second building, and onto a rooftop garden. It was small and very private, but incredibly beautiful, the bedding plants a rainbow of colors set amid stone walkways and benches, all of it screened away from the rest of Paranor by a high hedge wall.

  “Find a comfortable seat, Paxon,” Sebec directed. “The Ard Rhys will be with you shortly.”

  He moved off, returning the way he had come, leaving Paxon on his own. The Highlander glanced around, found a bench in the sunshine, and took a seat. As he waited, staring off into the distance where the tips of the trees in the forest surrounding the Druid’s Keep shimmered with a light breeze and birds circled in the skies overhead, he kept thinking of the sword strapped across his back. Of what use was it to him now? As protection against Arcannen and for Chrys certainly, but beyond that, what was he supposed to do with it? It was a powerful magic, one that had served various Leahs over the centuries in their support of the Druids and their numerous quests. Was there a quest in his future, one not yet made clear to him? Or was he clinging to the weapon because it was the only thing he had that made it seem as if there might be something more for him than continuing to run an airfreight service?

  He could smell the scents of the flowers that surrounded him, pungent and fragrant as they wafted in the breeze. He closed his eyes and breathed in those scents, and the memories they generated of the Highlands and home and family were so strong and poignant they almost brought tears.

  “Paxon?” a soft, lyrical voice asked.

  He opened his eyes quickly. Aphenglow Elessedil stood before him, wrapped in her Druid robes, the Eilt Druin laced around her neck, its silver emblem flashing in the sunlight. He had never seen her before, but he knew who she was instantly. She was tall and sparely built, her gaze steady, a smile on her face. She must have been very beautiful once, when she was young. She was still beautiful in the way some older women are, made so more because of her regal carriage and the proud, calm certainty she radiated than simply because of her physical features.

  He rose to greet her, flustered by the direct look she gave him and by the knowledge of what she represented. “Lady,” he responded and managed a short bow.

  She extended her hand and held his briefly. “Are you well rested?” she asked him.

  “Very well.” He glanced around appreciatively. “This is a beautiful place. The gardens, of course, but all of Paranor, as well.”

  “You have never been here, but you must have heard stories from your family.”

  “I have heard many. From my grandparents and my mother—of Mirai Leah and Railing and Redden Ohmsford. And of you.”

  “May I sit with you?” she asked.

  He moved over to allow her to do so. “I am surprised to be here,” he admitted. “Why did you ask me to come?”

  “You never knew Mirai, did you?” she asked instead of answering him. “She was a brave and resourceful young woman. You would have liked her. I think she had as much to do as anyone with the outcome at the Valley of Rhenn when my sister became the Ellcrys and the demon hordes were sent back into the Forbidding. You carry her blood in your veins; you carry Ohmsford blood within you, as well. A very potent mix that allows for special abilities. Even, perhaps, the presence of the wishsong.”

  He had thought of that possibility more than once over the years, ever since learning of the complexity of his family’s history, of Leahs linked to Ohmsfords. But there had never been even a hint of such magic in his blood—not even the smallest suggestion that it might be present.

  “I don’t think I have any use of magic,” he said. “I don’t think anyone in the family has since the Ohmsford twins.”

  “But you have something else of value, don’t you?” She gestured to his sword. “You have the blade that is your family’s legacy from centuries ago, the blade Allanon dipped into the black waters of the Hadeshorn and infused with his own magic. The blade he then returned to Rone Leah, naming him protector of Brin Ohmsford when she went in search of the Ildatch in order to destroy it.”

  So she knew about his sword. Paxon nodded but did not reply. He feared the worst now, could almost feel it happening. She had brought him here to claim the sword for the Druid order, and she would take it away in spite of his protests. He would want to do something to prevent her, but in the end common sense would prevail. Her magic was too powerful for him to resist. And he would never even think to try to use the sword against her. It would be pointless.

  “Do you have to take it from me?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t have to,” she answered, “but I should. Magic is not allowed in the hands of those who are not trained to use it, even if they have come by it in a legitimate way. It is a matter of public safety that such magic should be collected and held by the Druids.”

  “The Druid Edict,” he said. “I know.”

  “Still, that is not why I brought you to Paranor.” She looked off into the gardens, as if measuring something with her gaze. “You discovered the magic quite by accident. But you used it to good purpose—to save your sister. And you exercised reasonable judgment in doing so. What do you intend to do with it if you keep it?”

  He thought a moment, and then shook his head helplessly. “I don’t really know.”

  “Who else knows of the sword’s power besides you? Your sister? Does your mother know?”

  He shook his head no. “Just Arcannen, as you might have already guessed if you know how I rescued my sister.”

  “Tell me what happened, Paxon. Don’t leave anything out. I may be able to tell you more than you know about this business by the time you’ve finished.”

  So Paxon, curious now as to what she meant, told her everything, from when Jayet came running up to get him at the cottage to when he returned home safely from Wayford with Chrys in tow. Aphenglow listened without interrupting, attentive to his every word.

  When he finished, she gave a deep sigh. “The Druid order knows of Arcannen. This is not the first time he has been involved in something that works counter to our purposes. He will have to be dealt with eventually. He is a skilled sorcerer, but he is also venal and treacherous. You are right to be worried about him. He will come after you sooner or later. He will still want your sword, and he will not give up on trying to get it until he has it.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “You don’t know the half of it yet. Let me tell you what I suspect is the rest. Ostensibly, your sister got involved with throwing dice at a tavern with a stranger, who later turned out to be Arcannen. She bet more than she had, lost, and couldn’t pay. So he took her out of the tavern and back to Wayford where she could work off her debt at his pleasure house. You tried to stop it from happening, failed at the airfield, but picked yourself up and went after them. While you were attempting a rescue at Dark House, you drew out your sword and discovered it contained magic that responded to you. The magic saved your life. You fought your way free and rescued your sister. All well and good.”

  She paused. “But ask yourself this. Isn’t it odd that he made a point of goading you into coming after him to save your sister and while doing so pointedly suggested you bring a weapon? So you did; you brought the Sword of Leah. But what if that was what he wanted you to do, what he expected of you all along? You’ve said you believe he recognized the power of the sword when he saw it—that you could tell as much when he tried to prevent you from drawing it out of its sheath. What if I told you he knew about the power of the sword all along? That he lured you to Dark House by kidnapping your sister so you would bring him the sword?”

  Paxon frowned, considering. Arcannen had seemed suspiciously interested in the sword. “But if he wanted it so badly, why wouldn’t he just steal it from the cottage in the first place? It was hanging in plain sight over the fireplace. If he knew of it beforehand, wouldn’t it have been easier to get possession of it that way?”

  “What if he was
n’t interested only in the Sword of Leah, Paxon, but in you, as well? What if the sword was of no use to him without someone who could wield it—someone who was a member of the Leah family, a descendant of all those Leahs who actually used the sword in times now past?”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Let’s assume for the moment that he did.”

  “All right. Then how could he make me use it the way he wanted?”

  “Perhaps in the same way he used his own magic to make your sister play a game of dice she could not possibly win.”

  So Chrys hadn’t really been careless; she had been tricked. Paxon thought back on what had happened at the airfield when he had faced Arcannen and again when the sorcerer had been waiting for him at Dark House. What the Ard Rhys was telling him seemed to fit.

  “So he knew of the sword and wanted it, but needed me to release its power, and that is why he kidnapped Chrysallin?”

  “Except his plan fell apart when you drew out the sword and decided to stand up to him. The magic responds to attacks faster than you can think to ask it to. That has always been the hallmark of Faerie magic. What Allanon did to the Sword of Leah all those years ago at the Hadeshorn was to infuse your blade with that same kind of magic. So it acted to protect you and defeat Arcannen. But that’s not going to be the end of this, is it?”

  “No, it doesn’t seem likely,” he agreed. He felt a sinking in his stomach. He was in a lot more danger than he had imagined. “If he went to all that trouble, he won’t give up until he has the sword in hand. He’ll keep coming after me until he gets what he wants. What should I do?”

  Her smile returned. “This is what I brought you here to talk about. I want to make you an offer. Come to Paranor and live with us. Learn to use the magic of the sword fully and responsibly. We can help you do that. When your training is complete, remain here with us for three years as our paladin. It would constitute repayment in full for our services and provide you with practical experience using your sword. You would be given tasks to complete, helping us to secure various items of magic and to deal with those who refuse to cooperate in our efforts to protect against misuse of that magic. At the end of three years, if you so choose, you would be free to go.”