Terry Brooks - First King of Shannara

He shook his head. “There is no reason to tell any of this to the king. Telling him would accomplish nothing. Jerle Shannara was a brave and resourceful champion. He overcame his own misgivings and fear to employ the Druid magic against the most formidable enemy in the history of the Pour Lands. He did so under the most adverse of conditions and crudest of circumstances, and in all ways but one he succeeded in accomplishing what we expected of him. It is enough that he defeated the Warlock Lord and drove him from the Four Lands. It is enough that the magic of the Sword of Shannara has diminished the rebel Druid’s power so utterly that it will be centuries before he can regain form. There if sufficient time in the scheme of things to prepare for when that happens. Jerle Shannara did the best he could, and I think you should leave it at that.”

His aging eyes fixed on Allanon. “But you must know of his failure, because you are the one who must guard against its consequences. Brona lives and will one day return. I will not be there to face him. You must do so in my place—or if not you, another like you, one you will choose as I have chosen you.”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other in the soft, enveloping darkness.

Bremen shook his head helplessly. “If there were another way to do this, I would choose that way.” He felt uncomfortable speaking of it, as if by doing so he was looking for an excuse to change his mind when he knew he could not. “I wish I could stay longer with you, Allanon. But I am old, and I can feel myself weakening almost daily. I have kept myself whole for as long as I can. The Druid Sleep is no longer enough. I must take another form if I am to be of service to you in the battle you face. Do you understand what I am saying?”

The boy looked at him, his dark eyes intense. “I understand.”

He paused, the light changing in his eyes. “I will miss you, Father.”

The old man nodded. The boy called him that now. Father. The boy had adopted him, and it felt right that he had done so. “I will miss you, too,” he replied softly.

They talked more of what it was that would happen then, of the past and the future and the inextricable link that bound the one to the other. They shared the memories they had forged in their time together, repeated the vows they had made, and recounted the lessons that would matter in the years ahead.

Then, as the night lengthened and dawn approached, they walked together into the Valley of Shale. A mist had formed as the air cooled, and now it hung like a shroud above the valley, cloaking it in shimmering darkness, screening away the stars and their silver light. Their boots crunched on the loose rock, and their hearts beat with rough anticipation. They felt the heat rise off their bodies as they worked their way downward along the valley slopes, then across the floor toward the lake. The Hadeshorn gleamed like black ice, smooth and still. Not even the faintest ripple scratched its mirrored surface.

When they were a dozen feet from the lake’s dark edge, Bremen withdrew the Black Elfstone from his robes and passed it to the boy.

“Keep it safe for when you would return to the Keep,” he reminded him. “Remember what it is for. Remember what I have told you of its power. Be wary.”

“I will,” Allanon assured him.

He is just a boy, the old man thought suddenly. I am asking him to take on so much, and he is just a boy. He stared at Allanon in spite of himself, as if by doing so he might discover something he had missed, some particular of his character that would further reassure him. Then he turned away. He had done what he could to prepare the boy. It would have to be enough.

He walked alone to the shore’s edge and stared out over the dark waters. He closed his eyes, gathered himself for what was needed, then used the Druid magic to summon the spirits of the dead. They came swiftly, almost as if expecting his call, as if waiting for it. Their cries rose out of the silence, the earth rumbled, and the waters of the Hadeshorn rolled like a cauldron set upon a fire. Steam hissed, and voices whispered and moaned within the shadowy depths. Slowly the spirits began to lift out of the mist and spray, out of the whirlpool of darkness, out of the tortured cries. One by one they appeared, the tiny, silver shapes of the lesser spirits first, then the larger, darker form of Galaphile.

Bremen turned then and looked back to where Allanon stood waiting. He saw in that instant the particulars of Galaphile’s fourth vision, the one he had failed to understand for so long—himself, standing before the waters of the Hadeshorn; Galaphile’s shade, approaching through the mist and the swirl of lost spirits; and Allanon, his eyes so sad, watching it happen.

The shade came steadily on, an implacable presence, a shadow drawn blacker than the night through which he passed. He walked upon the waters of the Hadeshorn as if upon solid ground, advancing to where Bremen waited. The old man stretched out one hand to greet the spirit, his thin body rigid and worn.

“I am ready,” he said softly.

The shade gathered him in his arms and bore him away across the waters of the Hadeshorn and down into their depths.

Allanon stood alone on the shore, staring silently. He did not move as the waters went still again. He stayed motionless as the darkness faded and the sun crested the Dragon’s Teeth. One hand clutched the Black Elfstone tightly within his dark robes. His eyes were hard and steady.

When the sun had risen completely into the morning sky and the last of the shadows had been chased from the valley, he turned and walked away.