The Wishsong of Shannara (51 page)

XLVII

A
utumn had settled down across the land, and everywhere the colors of the season brightened and shone in the sunshine’s warmth. It was a clear, cool day in the Eastland forests where the Chard Rush tumbled down from out of the Wolfsktaag, and the skies were a depthless blue. There had been a frost that morning, and melted patches of it lingered still in the deep grasses and on the hardened earth and moss-grown rocks that lined the riverbanks, mixed with the spray of the channel’s foaming waters.

Brin paused at the edge of those waters to gather her thoughts.

It had been a week now since the little company of friends had departed the Ravenshorn. With the destruction of the Ildatch and the fading of the dark magic and all the things that it had made, the Gnome Hunters defending Graymark had fled back into the hills and forestlands of the deep Anar—back to the tribes from which they had been taken. Left alone in the crumbling, deserted fortress, Brin, Jair, and their friends had found the bodies of the Borderman Helt, the Dwarf Elb Foraker, and the Elven Prince Edain Elessedil and laid them to rest. Only Garet Jax had been left where he had fallen, for with the destruction of the Croagh, all passage to Heaven’s Well had been cut off. Perhaps it was right that the Weapons Master be left where no other mortal could go, Jair had offered solemnly. Perhaps it should be no different in death for Garet Jax than it had been in life.

They had camped that night in the forests below Graymark, south of where it nestled within the Ravenshorn, and it was there that Brin told the others her promise to Allanon that, when the Ildatch was destroyed and her quest finished, she would come back to him. Now that her long journey into the Maelmord was over, she must seek him out one final time. There were questions yet to be answered and things that she must know.

And so they had all come with her—her brother Jair, Rone, Kimber, Cogline, the moor cat Whisper, and even the Gnome Slanter. They had journeyed with her back down out of the Ravenshorn, skirted the mountains south along the barren stretches of Olden Moor, crossed again over Toffer Ridge into the forests of Darklin Reach and the valley of Hearthstone, then followed the winding channel of the Chard Rush west until they had reached the little glen where Allanon had fought his final battle. It had taken them a week to complete that journey, and on the evening of the seventh day they had camped at the edge of the glen.

Now, in the chill of early morning, she stood quietly, staring out across the river’s flow. Behind her, gathered in the bowl of the little glen, the others waited patiently. They had not come with her to the river’s edge; she had not wanted them to. This was something that she must do alone.

How am I to summon him? she wondered. Am I to sing to him? Am I to use the wishsong’s magic so that he will know that I am here? Or will he come without being called, knowing that I wait  . . . ?

As if in answer, the waters of the Chard Rush went still before her, their surface turned as smooth as glass. All about, the forest grew silent, and even the distant drone of the falls faded and was gone. Gently, the waters began to seethe, rippling and frothing like a stirred cauldron, and a single clear, sweet cry lifted into the morning air.

Then Allanon rose out of the Chard Rush, his tall, spare frame erect and robed in black. He came across the still waters of the river, his head lifting within the shadow of the cowl and his dark eyes hard and penetrating. He did not look the way Bremen had appeared; his body seemed solid rather than transparent, free from the mists that had cloaked his father’s shade and free from the death shroud that had wrapped the old man close. It was as if he still lived, Brin thought suddenly, as if he had never died.

He drew close to her and stopped, suspended in the air above the waters of the river.

“Allanon,” she whispered.

“I have waited for you to come, Brin Ohmsford,” he answered her softly.

She looked closer, seeing now the faint glimmer of the river’s waters through the darkness of his robes, shimmering gently, and she knew then that he was truly dead and that it was only his shade that stood before her.

“It is finished, Allanon,” she told him, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. “The Ildatch is destroyed.”

The cowled head inclined faintly. “Destroyed by the power of the Elven magic, shaped and colored by the wishsong. But destroyed as well, Valegirl, by a power greater still—by love, Brin; by the love that bound your brother to you. He loved you too much to fail, even though he came too late.”

“Yes, by love, too, Allanon.”

“Savior and destroyer.” The black eyes narrowed. “The power of your magic would make you both, and you have seen how corrupting such power can be. So terrible is the lure and so difficult to balance. I gave you warning of that, but such warning as I gave was not enough. I failed you badly.”

She shook her head quickly. “No, it was not you who failed me. It was I who failed myself.”

The Druid’s hand lifted from within the robes, and she found that she could see through it. “I do not have long, so hear me well, Brin Ohmsford. I did not understand all that I should have of the dark magic. I deceived myself—just as the Grimpond told you. I knew that the magic of the wishsong could be as my father had warned—both blessing and curse—and that the holder could therefore become both savior and destroyer. But you possessed reason and heart, and I did not think the danger so great as long as those qualities stood by you. I failed to realize the truth about the Ildatch and that the danger of the dark magic could go beyond those created to wield it. For the true danger was always the book—the subverter of all who had come to use the magic from the time of the Warlock Lord to the time of the Mord Wraiths. All had been slaves to the Ildatch, but the Ildatch was not merely an inanimate gathering of pages and bindings in which the dark magic was recorded. It was alive—an evil that could turn to its uses by the magic’s lure all who sought its power.”

Allanon bent close, sunlight streaking through the edges of the dark robes as if they had frayed. “It wanted you to come to it from the beginning. But it wanted you tested first. Each time you used the magic of the wishsong, you fell a bit farther under the lure of the magic’s power. You realized that there was something wrong in your continued use of the magic, but you were forced to use it anyway. And I was not there to tell you what was happening. By the time that you had gone down into the Maelmord, you were a thing much the same as all who had served the book, and you believed that this was as it should be. This was what the book intended that you should believe. It wanted to have you for its own. Even the power of the Mord Wraiths was insignificant in comparison to yours, for they had not been born with the magic as had you. In you, the Ildatch had found a weapon that carried more power than any that had ever served it—even the Warlock Lord.”

Brin stared at him disbelievingly. “Then it spoke the truth when it said that it had been waiting for me—that there were bonds that joined us.”

“A twisted half-truth,” Allanon cautioned. “You had become close enough in spirit to what it sought that it could make you believe that such was so. It could convince you that you were indeed the dark child of your fears.”

“But the wishsong could have made me so  . . .”

“The wishsong could have made you  . . . anything.”

She hesitated. “And still can?”

“And still can. Always.”

Brin watched the robed figure move closer still to where she stood. For a moment, she thought that he might reach out to draw her to him. But, instead, the lean face lifted and looked beyond her.

“My death was foretold at the Hadeshorn. My passing from this life was assured. But with the destruction of the Ildatch, the dark magic must pass as well. The wheel of time comes around, and the age ends. My father is set free at last, gone to the rest that had been so long denied him, bound no longer to me or to his pledge to the races of the Four Lands.”

The cowled head lowered to her once more. “And now I go, also. No Druids shall come after me. But the trust that was theirs resides now with you.”

“Allanon  . . .” she whispered, shaking her head.

“Hear me, Valegirl. The blood that I placed upon your forehead and the words I spoke at its giving have made it so. You are the bearer of the trust that was mine and my father’s before me. Do not be frightened by what that means. No harm shall befall you because of it. The last of the magic lives now within you and your brother, within the blood of your family. There it shall rest, safe and protected. It shall not be needed again in the age that is to come. The magic will have no useful place within that age. Other learning will be a better and truer guide for the races.

“But, heed. A time will come, far distant and beyond the lives of generations of Ohmsfords yet unborn, when the magic will be needed again. As with all things, time’s wheel will come around once more. Then the trust I have given you will be needed, and the children of the house of Shannara will be called upon to deliver it. For the world that will one day be, do you keep that trust safe.”

“No, Allanon, I do not want this  . . .”

But his hand lifted sharply and silenced her. “It is done, Brin Ohmsford. As my father did with me, I have chosen you—child of my life.”

Voiceless, she stared up at him in despair.

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered.

She nodded helplessly. “I will try.”

He began to draw away from her, his dark form fading slowly as the sunlight brightened through it. “Put the magic from you, Brin. Do not use it again, for there no longer is need. Be at peace.”

“Allanon!” she cried.

He drifted back across the Chard Rush, the waters roiling gently now beneath him. “Remember me,” he said softly.

He sank downward into the river, down through the silver waters, and was gone. The Chard Rush rolled on once more.

On the shore’s edge, Brin stared out across the water. There were tears in her eyes. “I will always remember you,” she whispered.

Then she turned and walked away.

XLVIII

S
o it was that the magic faded from the Four Lands and the tales of the Druids and Paranor passed into legend. For a time, there would be many who would insist that the Druids had been formed of flesh and blood and had walked the land as mortal men and as the protectors of the races; for a brief time, there would be many who would argue that the magic had been real and that terrible struggles had been waged between good and evil sorceries. But the number of believers would dwindle as the years passed. In the end, nearly all would vanish.

On the same morning that Allanon disappeared from the world of men for the final time, the little company bade farewell to one another. Surrounded by the colors and smells of autumn, they embraced, said good-bye, and departed for their own lands.

“I will miss you, Brin Ohmsford,” Kimber announced solemnly, her pixie face determinedly resolute. “And grandfather will miss you, too, won’t you, grandfather?”

Cogline shuffled his sandaled feet uneasily and nodded without looking at the Valegirl. “Some, I guess,” he admitted grudgingly. “Won’t miss all that crying and agonizing, though. Won’t miss that. Course, we did have some fine adventures, girl—I’ll miss you for that. Spider Gnomes and the black walkers and all. Almost like the old days  . . .”

He trailed off, and Brin smiled. “I’ll miss both of you, too. And Whisper. I owe my life as much to Whisper as to the rest of you. If he hadn’t come down into the Maelmord to find me  . . .”

“He sensed that he was needed,” Kimber declared firmly. “He would not have disregarded your warning if he had not sensed that need. I think there is a special bond between you—a bond beyond that created by your song.”

“Don’t want you coming back again without telling me first, though,” Cogline interrupted suddenly. “Or until I invite you. You don’t come into peoples’ homes without being asked!”

“Grandfather.” Kimber sighed.

“Will you come to see me?” Brin asked her.

The girl smiled and glanced at her grandfather. “Perhaps, some day. For a time, I think I’ll stay with grandfather and Whisper at Hearthstone. I have been away long enough. I miss my home.”

Brin came to her and hugged her close. “I miss mine as well, Kimber. But we’ll meet again some day.”

“You will always be my friend, Brin.” There were tears in her eyes as she buried her face in the Valegirl’s shoulder.

“And you will be mine,” Brin whispered. “Good-bye, Kimber. Thank you.”

Rone added his good-byes to Brin’s, then walked over to stand before Whisper. The big moor cat sat back on his haunches regarding the highlander curiously, saucer blue eyes blinking.

“I was wrong about you, cat,” he offered grudgingly. He hesitated. “That probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but it means something to me. You saved my life, too.” He stood looking at the moor cat for a moment, then glanced ruefully back at the others. “I promised myself I’d say that if he brought Brin safely out of the pit; but I still feel like an idiot standing here talking with him like this, for cat’s  . . . for  . . .”

He trailed off. Whisper yawned sleepily and showed all of his teeth.

A dozen yards away, Jair was feeling something of an idiot himself as he faced Slanter and struggled to find expression for the jumble of emotions rushing through him.

“Look, boy.” The Gnome was gruff and impatient. “Don’t make so much work out of this. Just say it. Goodbye. Just say it.”

But Jair shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t, Slanter. It’s not enough. You and I, we’ve been together one way or another right from the first—tight from the time I tricked you with the snakes and locked you in that wood bin.”

“Please don’t remind me!” the Gnome grumbled.

“We’re all that’s left, Slanter,” Jair tried to explain, folding his arms protectively across his chest. “All that way we came, you and I and the others—but they’re gone and we’re all that’s left.” He shook his head. “So much has happened, and I can’t just dismiss it with a simple ‘good-bye.’ “

Slanter sighed. “It’s not as if we’ll never see each other again, boy. What’s the matter—you think I’ll end up dead, too? Well, think again! I know how to take care of myself—said so yourself once, remember? Nothing’s going to happen to me. And I’d bet a month of nights in the black pit that nothing will ever happen to you! You’re too confounded sneaky!”

Jair smiled in spite of himself. “I guess that’s quite a compliment, coming from you.” He took a deep breath. “Come back with me, Slanter. Come back to Culhaven and tell them what happened. It should come from you.”

“No, boy.” The Gnome lowered his rough face and shook his head slowly. “I won’t be going back there again. Gnomes won’t be welcome in the Lower Anar for a good many years to come, no matter their reasons. No, I’m for the borderlands again—for now, at least.”

Jair nodded, and there was an awkward silence between them. “Good-bye then, Slanter. Until next time.”

He stepped forward and put his arms about the Gnome. Slanter hesitated, then patted him roughly on the shoulders.

“Now see, boy—that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Nevertheless, it was a long time before he broke away.

It was more than a week later when Brin, Jair, and Rone arrived once more in Shady Vale and turned onto the cobblestone walkway that led to the front door of the Ohmsford home. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already slipped behind the hills, leaving the forest cloaked in shadows and half-light. The sound of voices drifted through the still autumn air from homes scattered about, and leaves rustled through the long grass.

Before them, the windows of the cottage were already lighted against the evening gloom.

“Brin, how are we going to explain all this?” Jair asked for what must have been the hundredth time.

They had passed through the stand of flowering plum, by now almost entirely leafless, when the front door swung open and Eretria came rushing out.

“Wil, they’re home!” she called back over her shoulder and hurried to embrace both of her children and Rone in the bargain. A moment later Wil Ohmsford appeared as well, bent to kiss both Brin and Jair, and gave Rone a warm handshake.

“You look a bit tired, Brin,” he observed quietly. “Did you and your brother manage to get any sleep while you were in Leah?”

Brin and Jair exchanged a quick glance, while Rone smiled benignly and began studying the ground. “How was your trip south, father?” Jair changed the subject quickly.

“We were able to help a lot of people, fortunately.” Wil Ohmsford scrutinized his son carefully. “The work kept us away much longer than we had intended or we would have come for you in Leah. As it was, we just returned last night.”

Brin and Jair exchanged another quick glance, and this time their father saw it at once. “Would either of you like to tell me now who that old man was you sent?”

Brin stared. “What old man?”

“The old man with the message, Brin.”

Jair frowned. “What message?”

Eretria stepped forward now, a hint of displeasure in her dark eyes. “An old man came to us in the outlying villages south of Kaypra. He was from Leah. He had a message from you telling us that you had gone to the highlands and that you would be away for several weeks and not to worry. Your father and I thought it strange that so old a man would be serving as messenger for Rone’s father, but  . . .”

“Brin!” Jair whispered, wide-eyed.

“There was something familiar about him,” Wil mused suddenly. “It seemed to me that I ought to have known him.”

“Brin, I didn’t send any  . . .” Jair began, then cut himself short. They were all staring at him. “Wait  . . . just wait right here, just  . . . for a moment,” he sputtered, stumbling over the words as he edged past them. “Be right back!”

He dashed past them into the house, down the hallway, through the front room, and into the kitchen. He went at once to the stone hearth where it joined the shelving nooks and traced his way down to the third shelf. Then he moved the loose stone from its niche and reached inside.

His fingers closed over the Elfstones and their familiar leather pouch.

He stood there for a moment, stunned. Then gripping the Stones in his hand, he walked back through the house to where the others still waited on the cobbled walkway. With a grin, he produced the pouch and its contents and displayed them to an astonished Brin and Rone.

There was a long moment of silence as the five stared at one another. Then Brin took her mother with one arm and her father with the other.

“Mother. Father. I think we had better all go inside and sit down for a while.” She smiled. “Jair and I have something to tell you.”