Terry Brooks: Paladins of Shannara: The Black Irix (Short Story)

And in the end, it was. Shea, almost asleep by then, head drooping, eyes heavy, drank the last of his ale, and Flick caught the tankard just before it dropped from his brother’s hand.

Then he carried Shea to his room, tucked him into his bed, and went down to dinner alone. He ate in the dining room at a corner table, keeping to himself—his father was working in the kitchen that night—as he considered what he had just done and prayed to whatever fates determined such things that he had not made a mistake.

In the morning, when Shea woke and came down to breakfast, he looked much better. He was smiling and lively; he appeared to have begun his recovery.

“So you don’t feel sick anymore?” Flick asked happily.

His brother shook his head and grinned. “No. I can’t understand it. I feel like I used to. Much, much better.”

Flick said nothing then about what he had done. He watched his brother closely for almost two weeks, constantly looking for signs of a regression into the sickness, worrying that the potion’s effectiveness might not last. But at the end of that time, when Shea was still healthy and in all respects back to himself, Flick had to admit that the medicine Audrana Coos had given him had indeed worked.

It was then that he admitted the truth to Shea about what he had done, not wanting to keep anything from the brother to whom he told everything. He did so hesitantly, not certain what Shea’s reaction might be and anxious to be forgiven for his deception.

But Shea simply clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well done, Flick. No wonder I love you so much.”

Emboldened, Flick then told him what the seer had said about Shea going on another quest—one that Flick would not countenance, but one his brother would undertake anyway.

Shea laughed. “I’m not going on any more quests, Flick. I’m all done with that sort of thing. I’m staying right here in the Vale with you.”

And Flick smiled and hugged his brother, and put the matter out of his mind.

* * *

Four months later, with the summer mostly gone and the first signs of an approaching autumn reflected in chilly early mornings and leaves turning color, Shea Ohmsford was hauling wood for use in the big stone fireplace in the tavern’s common room. He did it by hand rather than by cart because he was still proving to himself that he was healed, that it wasn’t a temporary cure. His day stretched ahead of him, filled with upkeep tasks—patching the porch roof and repairing the hinges on the side kitchen door after he finished hauling in the wood—all of it providing him with a feeling of satisfaction at being able to do something that four months earlier he wouldn’t have. Every day he celebrated his recovery, still remembering how sick he had been.

Flick had driven the wagon out to the miller’s to haul back sacks of grain and would not return before late afternoon. On the morrow, they would go fishing in the Rappahalladran River, the day their own to do with as they wished. The air was pungent with the smell of dying leaves and smoke from fires, the sun warm on his shoulders, and the birdsong bright and cheerful. It was a good day.

Then he saw the rider approaching. Not on the main road leading into the village and past the houses and businesses that formed the bulk of the community’s buildings, but through the woods behind the inn. The rider was sitting casually astride his mount, letting the horse pick its way through the trees, but his eyes were on the boy. Shea thought afterward that he probably knew right away who it was, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Instead, he simply stopped where he was, a stack of wood cradled in his arms, and stared in disbelief.

It was Panamon Creel.

When he had first met him, the thief and adventurer had been clad all in scarlet—a bold, open challenge to convention and expectation alike. Now he wore woodsman’s garb, all browns and grays, with the exception of the scarves tied about his arms and waist, blood red and sleek, a reminder of the old days. His mount was big and strong, a warhorse from the look of it, with long legs that suggested it could run fast as well as far. Weapons sheathed and belted dangled from the horse and the man, strapped here and there—some fully visible, others apparent only from their distinctive shapes beneath clothing and his saddle pack.

He rode up to Shea and stopped. “Well met, Shea Ohmsford,” he said, swinging down to stand before him.

“Panamon Creel,” Shea replied in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.

“I should have sent word I was coming. But it is always more fun to show up unexpectedly. I trust I am not unwelcome here?”

“Not you,” the boy said. “Not ever.”

“Well, then, don’t stand there with your mouth open—show some enthusiasm!”

Shea dropped the wood with a clatter, rushed past the fallen logs, and hugged the other to him, pounding his back happily. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

It had been over a year and a half since the culmination of the events leading to Shea’s discovery and use of the Sword of Shannara against the Warlock Lord—an effort that would never have been successful if not for Panamon Creel. In the aftermath of Shea’s flight from the Skull Kingdom, he had been forced to leave his friend behind and thought him forever lost. But Panamon had turned up again weeks later in Shady Vale, alive and well, eager to recount the tales of those earlier days and to learn the truth about what had really happened, for much of it had been hidden from him.

Now he was back again—the bad penny returned, the clever trickster everyone so mistrusted, but who had saved Shea’s life over and over and about whom he could never think badly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for a thirsty traveler in that establishment of yours, would you?” the thief asked, grinning. “I’ve come far and ridden hard, and I’ve a very parched throat.”

“Come along,” Shea invited, picking up the scattered chunks of wood once more and starting for the inn. “You can tie up the horse out back and come inside for a glass of ale.”

“Or two, perhaps?” the other pressed, one eyebrow cocked.

He hadn’t changed, Shea thought. He never would. In point of fact, he looked exactly the same as the last time the Valeman had seen him—sun-browned face, unruly dark hair with touches of gray at the temples, piercing blue eyes, and a ready smile. A small, thin mustache gave him a rakish look. He was always charming and never predictable. With Panamon, there was always more than what appeared on the surface.

Shea remembered it all, fleeting thoughts that came and went as he walked the other inside and dumped his load of wood in the bin next to the fireplace. Then he walked over to the bar, drew down a couple of tankards of ale, and led his companion over to one of the tables in the mostly empty common room.

Panamon raised his tankard in a salute. “To surviving the bad and enjoying the good.”

Shea clinked his tankard with Panamon’s and drank. “You look as fit as ever.”

“Oh, I am. I don’t age, you know. I prefer to stay just as I was when you first met me. I’ve found that age to be a perfect fit for me, and I have decided to keep it.”

“Nice trick.”

“Magic, of a sort. You can do it, but it takes practice.” He leaned forward. “Rather like using those blue Stones you were carrying around when I went with you into the Northland. Do you remember?”

Shea nodded. “How could I forget?”

“Do you still have those Stones?”

Right away, Shea knew there was a reason for asking that went beyond mere curiosity. But this was Panamon Creel, and it would have been out of character for him not to be hiding something. “I do.”