by Terry Brooks
He felt a hot streak race through him. There had been no mention of his own magic, of the uses of the wishsong that he believed were hidden from him. Nothing had been said about the ways in which it might be employed. He hadn’t even been given a chance to ask questions. He didn’t know one thing more about the magic than he had before.
Par was angry and disappointed and a dozen other things too confusing to sort out. Recover the Sword of Shannara, indeed! And then what? What was he supposed to do with it? Challenge the Shadowen to some sort of combat? Go charging around the countryside searching them out and destroying them one by one?
His face flushed. Shades! Why should he even think about doing such a thing?
He caught himself. Well, that was really the crux of things, wasn’t it? Should he even consider doing what Allanon had asked—not so much the hunting of the Shadowen with the Sword of Shannara, but the hunting of the Sword of Shannara in the first place?
That was what needed deciding.
He tried pushing the matter from his mind for a moment, losing himself in the cool of the shadows where the cliffs still warded the pathway; but, like a frightened child clinging to its mother, it refused to release its grip. He saw Steff ahead of him saying something to Teel, then to Morgan and shaking his head vehemently as he did so. He saw the stiff set of Walker Boh’s back. He saw Wren striding after her uncle as if she might walk right over him. All of them were as angry and frustrated as he was; there was no mistaking the look. They felt cheated by what they had been told—or not told. They had expected something more substantial, something definitive, something that would give them answers to the questions they had brought with them.
Anything besides the impossible charges they had been given!
Yet Allanon had said the charges were not impossible, that they could be accomplished, and that the three charged had the skills, the heart, and the right to accomplish them.
Par sighed. Should he believe that?
And again he was back to wondering whether or not he should even consider doing what he had been asked.
But he was already considering exactly that, wasn’t he? What else was he doing by debating the matter, if not that?
He passed out of the cliff shadows onto the pebble-strewn trail leading downward to the campsite. As he did so, he made a determined effort to put aside his anger and frustration and to think clearly. What did he know that he could rely upon? The dreams had indeed been a summons from Allanon—that much appeared certain now. The Druid had come to them as he had come to Ohmsfords in the past, asking their help against dark magic that threatened the Four Lands. The only difference, of course, was that this time he had been forced to come as a shade. Cogline, a former Druid, had been his messenger in the flesh to assure that the summons was heeded. Cogline had Allanon’s trust.
Par took a moment to consider whether or not he really believed that last statement and decided he did.
The Shadowen were real, he went on. They were dangerous, they were evil, they were certainly a threat of some sort to the Races and the Four Lands. They were magic.
He paused again. If the Shadowen were indeed magic, it would probably take magic to defeat them. And if he accepted that, it made much of what Allanon and Cogline had told them more convincing. It made possible the tale of the origin and growth of the Shadowen. It made probable the claim that the balance of things was out of whack. Whether you accepted the premise that the Shadowen were to blame or not, there was clearly much wrong in the Four Lands. Most of the blame for what was bad had been attributed by the Federation to the magic of the Elves and Druids—magic that the old stories claimed was good. But Par thought the truth lay somewhere in between. Magic in and of itself—if you believed in it as Par did—was never bad or good; it was simply power. That was the lesson of the wishsong. It was all in how the magic was used.
Par frowned. That being so, what if the Shadowen were using magic to cause problems among the Races in ways that none of them could see? What if the only way to combat such magic was to turn it against the user, to cause it to revert to the uses for which it was intended? What if Druids and Elves and talismans like the Sword of Shannara were indeed needed to accomplish that end?
There was sense in the idea, he admitted reluctantly.
But was there enough sense?
The campsite appeared ahead, undisturbed since their leave-taking the previous night, streaked by early sunlight and fading shadows. The horses nickered at their approach, still tied to the picket line. Par saw that Cogline’s horse was among them. Apparently the old man had not returned here.
He found himself thinking of the way Cogline had come to them before, appearing unexpectedly to each, to Walker, Wren, and himself, saying what he had to say, then departing as abruptly as he had come. It had been that way each time. He had warned each of them what was required, then let them decide what they would do. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, that was what he had done this time as well—simply left them to decide on their own.
They reached the camp, still without having spoken more than a few brief words to one another, and came to an uneasy halt. There was some suggestion of eating or sleeping first, but everyone quickly decided against it. No one really wanted to eat or sleep; they were neither hungry nor tired. They were ready now to talk about what had happened. They wanted to put the matter to discussion and give voice to the thoughts and emotions that had been building and churning inside them during the walk back.
“Very well,” Walker Boh said curtly, after a moment’s strained silence. “Since no one else cares to say it, I will. This whole business is madness. Paranor is gone. The Druids are gone. There haven’t been any Elves in the Four Lands in over a hundred years. The Sword of Shannara hasn’t been seen for at least that long. We haven’t, any of us, the vaguest idea of how to go about recovering any of them—if, indeed, recovery is possible. I suspect it isn’t. I think this is just one more instance of the Druids playing games with the Ohmsfords. And I resent it very much!”
He was flushed, his face sharply drawn. Par remembered again how angry he had been back in the valley, almost uncontrolled. This was not the Walker Boh he remembered.
“I am not sure we can dismiss what happened back there as simple game-playing,” Par began, but then Walker was all over him.
“No, of course not, Par—you see all this as a chance to satisfy your misguided curiosity about the uses of magic! I warned you before that magic was not the gift you envisioned, but a curse! Why is it that you persist in seeing it as something else?”
“Suppose the shade spoke the truth?” Coll’s voice was quiet and firm, and it turned Walker’s attention immediately from Par.
“The truth isn’t in those cowled tricksters! When has the truth ever been in them? They tell us bits and pieces, but never the whole! They use us! They have always used us!”
“But not unwisely, not without consideration for what must be done—that’s not what the stories tell us.” Coll held his ground. “I am not necessarily advocating that we do as the shade suggested, Walker. I am only saying that it is unreasonable to dismiss the matter out of hand because of one possibility in a rather broad range.”
“The bits and pieces you speak of—those were always true in and of themselves,” Par added to Coll’s surprisingly eloquent defense. “What you mean is that Allanon never told the whole truth in the beginning. He always held something back.”
Walker looked at them as if they were children, shaking his head. “A half-truth can be as devastating as a lie,” he said quietly. The anger was fading now, replaced by a tone of resignation. “You ought to know that much.”
“I know that there is danger in either.”
“Then why persist in this? Let it go!”
“Uncle,” Par said, the reprimand in his voice astonishing even to himself, “I haven’t taken it up yet.”
Walker looked at him for a long time, a tall, pale-skinned figure against the dawn, his face unreadable in i
ts mix of emotions. “Haven’t you?” he replied softly.
Then he turned, gathered up his blankets and gear and rolled them up. “I will put it to you another way, then. Were everything the shade told us true, it would make no difference. I have decided on my course of action. I will do nothing to restore Paranor and the Druids to the Four Lands. I can think of nothing I wish less. The time of the Druids and Paranor saw more madness than this age could ever hope to witness. Bring back those old men with their magics and their conjuring, their playing with the lives of men as if they were toys?”
He rose and faced them, his pale face as hard as granite. “I would sooner cut off my hand than see the Druids come again!”
The others glanced at one another in consternation as he turned away to finish putting together his pack.
“Will you simply hide out in your valley?” Par shot back, angry now himself.
Walker didn’t look at him. “If you will.”
“What happens if the shade spoke the truth, Walker? What happens if all it has foreseen comes to pass, and the Shadowen reach extends even into Hearthstone? Then what will you do?”
“What I must.”
“With your own magic?” Par spat. “With magic taught to you by Cogline?”
His uncle’s pale face lifted sharply. “How did you learn of that?”
Par shook his head stubbornly. “What difference is there between your magic and that of the Druids, Walker? Isn’t it all the same?”
The other’s smile was hard and unfriendly. “Sometimes, Par, you are a fool,” he said and dismissed him.
When he rose a moment later, he was calm. “I have done my part in this. I came as I was bidden and I listened to what I was supposed to hear. I have no further obligation. The rest of you must decide for yourselves what you will do. As for me, I am finished with this business.”
He strode through them without pausing, moving down to where the horses were tethered. He strapped his pack in place, mounted, and rode out. He never once looked back.
The remaining members of the little company watched in silence. That was a quick decision, Par thought—one that Walker Boh seemed altogether too anxious to make. He wondered why.
When his uncle was gone, he looked at Wren. “What of you?”
The Rover girl shook her head slowly. “I haven’t Walker’s prejudices and predispositions to contend with, but I do have his doubts.” She walked over to a gathering of rocks and seated herself.
Par followed. “Do you think the shade spoke the truth?”
Wren shrugged. “I am still trying to decide if the shade was even who it claimed, Par. I sensed it was, felt it in my heart, and yet . . .” She trailed off. “I know nothing of Allanon beyond the stories, and I know the stories but poorly. You know them better than I. What do you think?”
Par did not hesitate. “It was Allanon.”
“And do you think he spoke the truth?”
Par was conscious of the others moving over to join them, silent, watchful. “I think there is reason to believe that he did, yes.” He outlined his thoughts as far as he had developed them during the walk back from the valley. He was surprised at how convincing he sounded. He was no longer floundering; he was beginning to gain a measure of conviction in his arguments. “I haven’t thought it through as much as I would like,” he finished. “But what reason would the shade have for bringing us here and for telling us what it did if not to reveal the truth? Why would it tell us a lie? Walker seems convinced there is a deception at work in this, but I cannot find what form it takes or what purpose it could possibly serve.
“Besides,” he added, “Walker is frightened of this business—of the Druids, of the magic, of whatever. He keeps something from us. I can sense it. He plays the same game he accuses Allanon of playing.”
Wren nodded. “But he also understands the Druids.” When Par looked confused, she smiled sadly. “They do hide things, Par. They hide whatever they do not wish revealed. That is their way. There are things being hidden here as well. What we were told was too incomplete, too circumscribed. However you choose to view it, we are being treated no differently from our ancestors before us.”
There was a long silence. “Maybe we should go back into the valley tonight and see if the shade won’t come to us again,” Morgan suggested in a tone of voice that whispered of doubt.
“Perhaps we should give Cogline a chance to reappear,” Coll added.
Par shook his head. “I don’t think we will be seeing any more of either for now. I expect whatever decisions we make will have to be made without their help.”
“I agree.” Wren stood up again. “I am supposed to find the Elves and—how did he put it?—return them to the world of men. A very deliberate choice of words, but I don’t understand them. I haven’t any idea where the Elves are or even where to begin to look for them. I have lived in the Westland for almost ten years now, Garth for many more than that, and between us we have been everywhere there is to go. I can tell you for a fact that there are no Elves to be found there. Where else am I to look?”
She came over to Par and faced him. “I am going home. There is nothing more for me to do here. I will have to think on this, but even thinking may be of no use. If the dreams come again and tell me something of where to begin this search, then perhaps I will give it a try. But for now . . .”
She shrugged. “Well. Goodbye, Par.”
She hugged and kissed him, then did the same for Coll and even Morgan this time. She nodded to the Dwarves and began gathering up her things. Garth joined her silently.
“I wish you would stay a bit longer, Wren,” Par tried, quiet desperation welling up like a knot in his stomach at the thought of being left alone to wrestle with this matter.
“Why not come with me instead?” she answered. “You would probably be better off in the Westland.”
Par looked at Coll, who frowned. Morgan looked away. Par sighed and shook his head reluctantly. “No, I have to make my own decision first. I have to do that before I can know where I should be.”
She nodded, seeming to understand. She had her things together, and she walked up to him. “I might think differently if I had the magic for protection like you and Walker. But I don’t. I don’t have the wishsong or Cogline’s teachings to rely on. I have only a bag of painted stones.” She kissed him again. “If you need me, you can find me in the Tirfing. Be careful, Par.”
She rode out of the camp with Garth trailing. The others watched them go, the curly haired Rover girl and her giant companion in his bright patchwork clothes. Minutes later, they were specks against the western horizon, their horses almost out of sight.
Par kept looking after them even when they had disappeared. Then he glanced east again after Walker Boh. He felt as if parts of himself were being stolen away.
Coll insisted they have something to eat then, all of them, because it had been better than twelve hours since their last meal and there was no point in trying to think something through on an empty stomach. Par was grateful for the respite, unwilling to confront his own decision-making in the face of the disappointment he felt at the departure of Walker and Wren. He ate the broth that Steff prepared along with some hard bread and fruit, drank several cupfuls of ale, and walked down to the spring to wash. When he returned, he agreed to his brother’s suggestion that he lie down for a few minutes and after doing so promptly fell asleep.
It was midday when he woke, his head throbbing, his body aching, his throat hot and dry. He had dreamed snatches of things he would have been just as happy not dreaming at all—of Rimmer Dall and his Federation Seekers hunting him through empty, burned-out city buildings; of Dwarves that watched, starving and helpless in the face of an occupation they could do nothing to ease; of Shadowen lying in wait behind every dark corner he passed in his flight; of Allanon’s shade calling out in warning with each new hazard, but laughing as well at his plight. His stomach felt unsettled, but he forced the feeling aside. He washed again, drank some
more ale, seated himself in the shade of an old poplar tree, and waited for the sickness to pass. It did, rather more quickly than he would have expected, and soon he was working on a second bowl of the broth.
Coll joined him as he ate. “Feeling better? You didn’t look well when you first woke up.”
Par finished eating and put the bowl aside. “I wasn’t. But I’m all right now.” He smiled to prove it.
Coll eased down next to him against the roughened tree trunk, settling his solid frame in place, staring out from the comfort of the shade into the midday heat. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, the blocky features crinkling thoughtfully. He seemed reluctant to continue. “I’ve been thinking about what I would do if you decided to go looking for the Sword.”
Par turned to him at once. “Coll, I haven’t even . . .”
“No, Par. Let me finish.” Coll was insistent. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being your brother, it’s to try to get the jump on you when it comes to making decisions. Otherwise, you make them first and once they’re made, they might as well be cast in stone!”
He glanced over. “You may recall that we’ve had this discussion before? I keep telling you I know you better than you know yourself. Remember that time a few years back when you fell into the Rappahalladran and almost drowned while we were off in the Duln hunting that silver fox? There wasn’t supposed to be one like it left in the Southland, but that old trapper said he’d seen one and that was enough for you. The Rappahalladran was cresting, it was late spring, and Dad told us not to try a crossing—made us promise not to try. I knew the minute you made that promise that you would break it if you had to. The very minute you made it!”
Par frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t say . . .”
Coll cut him short. “The point is, I can usually tell when you’ve made up your mind about something. And I think Walker was right. I think you’ve made up your mind about going after the Sword of Shannara. You have, haven’t you?”
Par stared at him, surprised.