by Terry Brooks
At the other end of the bridge the gates to the palace swung open in reception. Menion peered ahead in disbelief. The entire entryway was lined with soldiers of the palace guard, all immaculately dressed in their black uniforms crested by the emblem of the falcon, all standing stiffly at attention. From within the enclosure, trumpets announced the arrival of the coach and its passengers. The highlander was astonished. They were being accorded the formal welcome normally reserved for only the greatest leaders of the four lands, a policy strictly observed by the few monarchies remaining in the vast Southland. The pomp and display of a full military salute clearly indicated that Palance Buckhannah was determined to ignore not only the circumstances under which they had arrived, but the inviolate tradition of centuries.
“He must be mad—absolutely mad!” the angered Southlander stormed. “What does he think this is? We’re besieged by an invading army, and he turns out the troops for a dress parade!”
“Menion, be careful what you say to him. We must be patient if we are to be of any use to Balinor.” Shirl gripped his shoulder and faced him for a moment, smiling quickly in warning. “Remember as well that he loves me, misguided though he may be. He was a good man once, and he is Balinor’s brother still.”
Impatient and impulsive as always, Menion nevertheless realized that she was right. There was nothing to be gained by showing he was angered with the foolish pageant, and he was well advised to go along with the Prince’s whims until Balinor was located and freed. He sat quietly back in the coach as it entered the palace gates, passing in slow review before the rows of expressionless soldiers that formed the elite of the King’s personal guard. The fanfares continued to roll from all sides, and a small squad of cavalry wheeled in precise formation about the courtyard for the benefit of the new arrivals. Then the carriage came to a gentle halt, and the big figure of the new ruler of Callahorn appeared at the coach door, the broad face smiling in nervous delight.
“Shirl—Shirl, I thought I would never see you again!” He reached into the coach and helped the slim girl from the small enclosure, holding her close to him for a moment and stepping away to view her once more. “I … I really thought I had lost you.”
Burning quietly, an impassive Menion helped himself from the carriage, stepping down beside them, smiling faintly as Palance turned to greet him.
“Prince of Leah, you are indeed welcome in my kingdom,” the big man greeted the lean highlander, reaching warmly for his hand. “You have done me … a very great service. Anything I have is yours—anything. We shall be great friends, you and I! Great friends! It has been … so long since …”
He trailed off sharply, looking intensely at the highlander, suddenly lost in thought. His speech was stilted and nervous, almost as if he weren’t quite sure of what he was saying at any one point. If he weren’t completely mad already, Menion thought quickly, he was certainly very ill.
“I’m very pleased to be in Tyrsis,” he responded, “although I wish the circumstances could have been more pleasant for all concerned.”
“You mean my brother, of course?” The question shot out as the other snapped awake again, his face flushed. Menion started momentarily in surprise.
“Palance, he means the invasion of the Northlanders, the burning of Kern,” Shirl interposed quickly.
“Yes … Kern …” Again he trailed off, this time looking anxiously about as if someone were missing. Menion glanced about uneasily, realizing that the mystic Stenmin was strangely absent. According to Shirl and Janus Senpre, the Prince never went anywhere without his adviser. Quickly he caught Shirl’s watchful eye.
“Is there something wrong, my Lord?” Menion used the formal address to catch the other’s instant attention, smiling quickly in reassurance that he was a concerned friend prepared to help. The deception brought unexpected results.
“You can help me … and this kingdom, Menion Leah,” Palance responded quickly. “My brother seeks to be King in my place. He would have me killed. My adviser Stenmin has saved me from this—but there are other enemies … all around! You and I must be friends. We must stand together against those who seek to take my throne—to bring harm to this lovely woman whom you have returned to me. I … I cannot talk with Stenmin … the way I would talk with a friend. But you, I could talk with you!”
Like a small child, he gazed eagerly at the amazed Menion Leah, awaiting his reply. A sudden feeling of pity for this son of Ruhl Buckhannah swept over the highlander, and he truly wished there was something he could do to help the unfortunate man. Smiling sadly, he nodded his agreement.
“I knew you would stand with me!” the other exclaimed excitedly, laughing in delight. “We are both men of royal blood, and that … binds us closely. You and I shall be great friends, Menion. But now … you must rest.”
He seemed to recall suddenly that his palace corps were still standing stiffly at parade attention, waiting patiently for the Prince to give the order for dismissal. With a sharp wave of his hand, the new ruler of Callahorn led his two guests toward the Buckhannah home, nodding to the commander of his personal guard as they passed to signal that his soldiers could be dispersed for regular duty. The trio passed into the entryway of the ancient home, where a number of servants stood waiting to escort the guests to their rooms. Pausing briefly once more, the host turned to his guests, bending close to whisper.
“My brother is locked in the dungeons beneath us. You need not be afraid.” He stared meaningfully at them for a moment, glancing quickly at the curious servants who waited respectfully in the background. “He has friends everywhere, you know.”
Both Menion and Shirl nodded, because it was expected of them.
“He won’t escape from the dungeons then?” Menion pursued the matter a bit further.
“He tried last night … with his friends.” Palance smiled with satisfaction. “But we caught them and trapped them … trapped them in the dungeon forever. Stenmin is there now … you must meet him …”
Again he straightened up with the thought left unspoken, his attention given over to the servants, several of whom he beckoned to his side. He crisply directed them to escort his friends to their quarters where they could bathe themselves and don fresh clothing before joining him for breakfast. It was still only about an hour after dawn and the refugees from Kern had not eaten since the previous night. Menion needed medical treatment for his hastily bandaged wounds, and the house physician stood ready to change the dressings and apply fresh medicines. He needed rest, too, but that could wait. The small party started down one long hallway when suddenly a distracted voice called after Shirl, and the new ruler of Callahorn came after them, approaching the wondering girl with hesitant steps, finally stopping before her and quickly embracing her. Menion kept his face averted, but their words were clear.
“You must not go away from me again, Shirl.” It was a command, not a request, though the words were softly spoken. “Your new home must be in Tyrsis—as my wife.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Palance, I think we …” Shirl’s voice shook as she tried to interpose a quiet explanation.
“No—say nothing. No discussion is necessary now … not now,” Palance interrupted quickly. “Later … when we are alone, when you are rested … there will be time. You know I love you … I always have. And you have loved me, I know.”
Again the long moment of silence, and then Shirl was walking quickly past Menion, forcing the servants to dash ahead in order to lead the way to the guest quarters. The highlander quickly came up beside the beautiful girl, not daring to reach for her while his host stood silently watching them move down the hallway. Shirl’s face was lowered, shaded by the long red hair, the slim, bronzed hands clasped tightly before her. Neither spoke as the servants led them down the wide corridor to their rooms in the west wing of the ancient home. They separated briefly while Menion allowed the persistent physician to treat his wounds and wrap them in fresh bandages. Clean clothing lay on the hu
ge, four-posted bed, and a hot bath stood waiting, but a distraught Menion ignored them both. Quickly he slipped from his room into the empty hallway; he knocked softly, pushed open the door to Shirl’s room, and entered. She rose slowly from the bed as he closed the heavy wooden door, then ran quickly to him, her arms encircling and holding him tightly to her.
They stood in silence for several minutes, just holding each other, feeling the warm life flow quickly through their bodies, knotting and winding in unbreakable ties. Softly Menion stroked the dark red tresses, gently pressing the beautiful face close against his chest. She depended on him; the thought flashed with relief through his numbed mind. When her own strength, her own courage had faltered, she had turned to him, and Menion realized that he loved her desperately.
It was very strange that it should happen now, when their world seemed destined to crumble about them and death stood waiting in the shadows. Yet Menion’s turbulent life of the past several weeks had drawn him from one frightening struggle to the next, each a battle for survival that seemed senseless in mortal terms and found its logic solely in the strange legend of the mystic Sword of Shannara and the Warlock Lord. In those terrible days since Culhaven, life had raged around him like a battle, and he had surged directionless through its center. His deep friendship and love for Shea, and his now broken companionship with the members of the company that had journeyed to Paranor and beyond, had provided a faint sense of stability, an indication that something constant would remain while the rest of the world rushed away. Then unexpectedly, he had found Shirl Ravenlock, and the fast pace of events and dangers shared in those past few days, combined with a totally predictable meshing of personal needs, had drawn and bound them inextricably to one another. Menion closed his eyes and pressed her closer.
Palance had been helpful in at least one respect—he had told them that Balinor and probably the others with him were imprisoned in the dungeons somewhere beneath the palace. Evidently one escape had already failed, and Menion was determined that he would not make any mistakes. Quietly he conversed with Shirl, trying to decide what their next step should be. If Palance insisted on keeping Shirl close to him in order to assure her protection, her movement would be severely restricted. A worse threat was the Prince’s obsession with marrying her in the false belief that she truly loved him. Palance Buckhannah seemed poised on the brink of total madness, his sanity precariously balanced. It could be tipped at any moment, and if that should happen while Balinor was his prisoner…
Menion paused mentally, aware that time did not permit speculation of what might happen tomorrow. By then it would make little difference because the Northland invasion force would be at the gates and it would be too late for anyone to do anything. Balinor had to be freed now. Menion had a strong ally in Janus Senpre, but the palace was secured by the special black-garbed soldiers who served only the ruler, and at the moment it appeared they served Palance Buckhannah. No one seemed to know what had become of the old King; he had not been seen for weeks. Evidently he was unable to move from his sickbed, yet there was only his son’s word for that—and his son relied on the word of the strange mystic Stenmin.
Shirl had once remarked that she had never seen Palance alone for more than a few moments without his adviser close at hand, yet when they arrived from Kern, Stenmin had been nowhere in sight. This was peculiar, especially since it was common knowledge that Stenmin had made himself the real power behind the unstable Prince. Shirl’s father had stated in the council chambers of Kern that the evil mystic seemed to possess some strange hold over the younger son of Ruhl Buckhannah. If only Menion could discover what that power was—for he was sure that the mystic was the key to the Prince’s unbalanced behavior. But there was no time left. He would have to do the best he could with what little he knew now.
When he left Shirl and returned to his own room, ready now for that hot bath and a clean change of clothing, a plan for freeing Balinor was already forming in his mind. He was still filling in the details when the bath was finished and there was a knock on the door. Slipping into a robe his host had furnished, he crossed the room and opened the door. One of the palace servants had brought him the sword of Leah. Smiling gratefully, he thanked the man and dropped the precious weapon on the bed, recalling that he had deposited it on the seat in the carriage during his ride to the palace and forgotten to remove it. His mind wandered briefly as he dressed, remembering proudly the service that battle-worn implement had seen. He had been through so much since Shea had appeared in Leah those many weeks ago—it might have been a lifetime for any man.
Pausing momentarily, he reflected sadly on his missing friend and wondered for the thousandth time if the little Valeman were still alive. He should not be in Tyrsis, he chided himself in bitter recrimination. Shea had depended on him for protection, but it appeared that his trust had been badly misplaced. Menion had repeatedly allowed himself to be governed by the wishes of Allanon, and each time his conscience had warned him that he was somehow failing his companion by following the Druids counsel. He felt deeply angered at the thought that he had ignored his clear responsibility to the Valeman, and yet the choices that had brought him to Tyrsis had been his own. There were others besides Shea who desperately needed him.…
Crossing the spacious bedroom in measured steps, still lost in thought, he dropped heavily to the welcome softness of the large bed, his outstretched hand coming to rest on the cool metal of his sword. He fingered it lightly as he lay back wearily and pondered the problems facing him. Shirl’s frightened face lingered in his mind, her eyes searching Menion’s own. She was very important to him; he could not leave her now in order to resume the search for Shea, no matter what the consequences might be. It was a bitter choice to make, if indeed there was any real choice at all, for his duty ran beyond those two single lives to those of Balinor and his imprisoned comrades and ultimately to those of the people of Callahorn. It would be for Allanon and Flick to find and rescue the missing Valeman if he were still alive. So much depended on them all, he thought absently, his tired mind and body already drifting toward a much-needed sleep. They could only pray for success … pray and wait. He hovered on the brink of slumber and then softly dropped off.
A moment later his sleeping mind jerked sharply and he was instantly awake. There may have been a slight noise or perhaps only a highly keyed sixth sense, but whatever it was snapped him back from a sleep that would have ended in his death. He lay motionless on the great bed as his listening ears caught a faint scraping sound from the far wall, and through the slits of his eyelids he saw a portion of a tapestry ripple with movement. A part of the heavy stone behind the tapestry seemed to push outward and a bent, scarlet-cloaked figure slid noiselessly into view.
Menion forced himself to continue breathing in measured intervals, although his heart was beating wildly, urging him to leap from the bed and seize the mysterious intruder. The cloaked figure moved silently across the bedroom floor, the unfamiliar face glancing quickly about the room and then turning back to the highlander’s sprawled form. The intruder was only several feet from the bed when a lean hand slipped beneath the scarlet cloak and emerged, gripping a long, wicked dagger.
Mention’s outstretched hand rested loosely on the sword of Leah, but still he did not move. He waited a moment longer until the attacker was within about a yard of the bed, the dagger held at waist level; then with the lightning speed of a cat, he struck. The lean body whipped upward and toward the startled intruder, one hand clenching the sword still sheathed in its leather scabbard as the flat of the blade snapped sharply around at the man’s unprotected face, striking it in a stinging slap. The mysterious figure reeled backward, the dagger raised defensively. The sword struck a second time, and the weapon clattered to the floor as the numbed fingers of the attacker clenched suddenly in pain. Menion did not pause, but threw himself at the scarlet figure, his own weight dragging the struggling man to the floor where he quickly pinned him, twisting one arm sharply as his fingers
closed tightly about the windpipe.
“Speak up, assassin!” Menion growled menacingly.
“No, no wait, you’ve made a mistake … I’m not an enemy … please, I can’t breathe.…”
The voice choked sharply and the man’s breath rasped in ragged gulps as the highlander’s grip remained unaltered and the cold dark eyes surveyed the face of his captive. To his knowledge, Menion had never seen the man. The face was pinched and sharp, framed by a small black beard and lined with pain. Even as he studied the teeth clenched in anger and the eyes burning with hatred, the highlander instinctively knew there had been no mistake made. Stepping quickly to one side, he jerked the intruder to his feet, one hand still firmly fastened on the scrawny neck.
“Tell me about my mistake, then. You have about a minute before I cut your tongue out and turn you over to the guards!”
He released his grip on the man’s throat, his hand dropping to seize the front of the scarlet tunic. Tossing his sword on the bed, he quickly picked up the fallen dagger, holding it ready should his attacker attempt anything further.
“This was a gift, Prince of Leah … merely a gift from the King.” The voice broke slightly as the fellow struggled to regain his composure. “The King wanted to show his gratitude, and I … I came through another door so as not to disturb your sleep.”
He paused as if waiting for something, the sharp eyes riveted on the highlander’s own. He wasn’t waiting to see if his story would be believed—it was something else, almost as if he were expecting Menion to see something more.… The Prince of Leah jerked him sharply, snapping the lean face close to his own.