Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 2

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ONE

Grianne Ohmsford was six years old on the last day of her childhood. She was

small for her age and lacked unusual strength of body or extraordinary life

experience and was not therefore particularly well prepared for growing up all

at once. She had lived the whole of her life on the eastern fringes of the Rabb

Plains, a sheltered child in a sheltered home, the eldest of two born to Araden

and Biornlief Ohmsford, he a scribe and teacher, she a housewife. People came

and went from their home as if it were an inn, students of her father, clients

drawing on the benefit of his skills, travelers from all over the Four Lands.

But she herself had never been anywhere and was only just beginning to

understand how much of the world she knew nothing about when everything she did

know was taken from her.

While she was unremarkable in appearance and there was nothing about her on the

surface of things that would suggest she could survive any sort of life-altering

trauma, the truth of the matter was that she was strong and able in unexpected

ways. Some of this showed in her startling blue eyes, which pinned you with

their directness and pierced you through to your soul. Strangers who made the

mistake of staring into them found themselves glancing quickly away. She did not

speak to these men and women or seem to take anything away from her encounters,

but she left them with a sense of having given something up anyway. Wandering

her home and yard, long dark hair hanging loose, a waif seemingly at a loss for

something to do or somewhere to go, or just sitting alone in a corner while the

adults talked among themselves, she claimed her own space and kept it inviolate.

She was tough-minded, as well, a stubborn and intractable child who once her

mind was set on something refused to let it be changed. For a time her parents

could do so by virtue of their relationship and the usual threats and

enticements, but eventually they found themselves incapable of influencing her.

She seemed to find her identity in making a stand on matters, by holding forth

in challenge and accepting whatever came her way as a result. Frequently it was

a stern lecture and banishment to her room, but often it was simply denial of

something others thought would benefit her. Whatever the case, she did not seem

to mind the consequences and was more apt to be bothered by capitulation to

their wishes.

But at the core of everything was her heritage, which manifested itself in ways

that hadn't been apparent for generations. She knew early on that she was not

like her parents or their friends or anyone else she knew. She was a throwback

to the most famous members of her family-to Brin and Jair and Par and Coll

Ohmsford, to whom she could directly trace her ancestry. Her parents explained

it to her early on, almost as soon as her talent revealed itself. She was born

with the magic of the wishsong, a latent power that surfaced in the Ohmsford

family bloodline only once in every four or five generations. Wish for it, sing

for it, and it would come to pass. Anything was possible. The wishsong hadn't

been present in an Ohmsford in her parents' lifetimes, and so neither of them

had any firsthand experience with how it worked. But they knew the stories, had

been told them repeatedly by their own parents, the tales of the magic carried

down from the time of the great Queen Wren, another of their ancestors. So they

knew enough to recognize what it meant when their child could bend the stalks of

flowers and turn aside an angry dog simply by singing.

Her use of the wishsong was rudimentary and undisciplined at first, and she did

not understand that it was special. In her child's mind, it seemed reasonable

that everyone would possess it. Her parents worked to help her realize its

worth, to harness its power, and to learn to keep it secret from others. Grianne

was a smart girl, and she understood quickly what it meant to have something

others would covet or fear if they knew she possessed it. She listened to her

parents about this, although she paid less attention to their warnings about the

ways it should be used and the purposes to which it should be put. She knew

enough to show them what they expected of her and to hide from them what they

did not.

So on the last day of her childhood she had already come to terms with having

use of the magic. She had constructed defenses to its demands and subterfuges to

her parents' refusals to let her fully test its limits. Wrapped in the armor of

her strong-minded determination and stubborn insistence, she had built a

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fortress in which she wielded the wishsong with a sense of impunity. Her child's

world was already more complex and devious than that of many adults, and she was

learning the importance of never giving away everything of who and what she was.

It was her gift of magic and her understanding of its workings that saved her.

At the same time, and through no fault of her own, it was what doomed her

parents and younger brother.

She knew there was something wrong with her child's world some weeks before that

last day. It manifested itself in small ways, things that her parents and others

could not readily detect. There she was safely away, outside in the pale dawn

light, she would run the five miles to the next closest home and return with

help for her brother.

She heard the black-cloaked forms searching for her as she hurried along a short

passageway to a cellar door that led directly outside. Outside, the door was

concealed by bushes and seldom used, it was not likely they would think to find

her there. If they did, they would be sorry. She already knew the sort of damage

the wishsong could cause. She was a child, but she was not helpless. She blinked

away her tears and set her jaw. They would find that out one day. They would

find that out when she hurt them the same way they were hurting her.

Then she was through the door and outside in the brightening dawn light,

crouched in the bushes. Smoke swirled about her in dark clouds, and she felt the

heat of the fire as it climbed the walls of her home. Everything was being taken

from her, she thought in despair. Everything that mattered.

A sudden movement to one side drew her attention. When she turned to look, a

hand wrapped in a foul-smelling cloth closed over her face and sent her

spiraling downward into blackness.

When she awoke, she was bound, gagged, and blindfolded, and she could not tell

where she was or who held her captive or even if it was day or night. She was

carried over a thick shoulder like a sack of wheat, but her captors did not

speak. There were more than one; she could hear their footsteps, heavy and

certain. She could hear their breathing. She thought about her home and parents.

She thought about her brother. The tears came anew, and she began to sob. She

had failed them all.

She was carried for a long time, then laid upon the ground and left alone. She

squirmed in an effort to free herself, but the bonds were too tightly knotted.

She was hungry and thirsty, and a cold desperation was creeping through her.

There could be only one reason she had been taken captive, one reason she was

needed when her parents and brother were not. Her wishsong. She was alive and

they were dead because of her legacy. She was the one with the magic. She was

the one who was special. Special enough that her family was killed so that she

could be stolen away. Special enough to cause everything she loved and cared for

to be taken from her.

There was a commotion not long after that, sudden and unexpected, filled with

new sounds of battle and angry cries. They seemed to be coming from all around

her. Then she was snatched from the ground and carried off, leaving the sounds

behind. The one who carried her now cradled her while running, holding her

close, as if to soothe her fear and desperation. She curled into her rescuer's

arms, burrowed as if stricken, for such was the depth of her need.

When they were alone in a silent place, the bonds and gag and blindfold were

removed. She sat up and found herself facing a big man wrapped in black robes, a

man who was not entirely human, his face scaly and mottled like a snake's, his

fingers ending in claws, and his eyes lidless slits. She caught her breath and

shrank from him, but he did not move away in response.

"You are safe now, little one," he whispered. "Safe from those who would harm

you, from the Dark Uncle and his kind."

She did not know whom he was talking about. She looked around guardedly. They

were crouched in a forest, the trees stark sentinels on all sides, their

branches confining amid a sea of sunshine that dappled the woodland earth like

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Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 2

gold dust. There was no one else around, and nothing of what she saw looked

familiar.

"There is no reason to be afraid of me," the other said. "Are you frightened by

how I look?"

She nodded warily, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

He handed her a water skin, and she drank gratefully. "Do not be afraid. I am of

mixed breed, both Man and Mwellret, little one. I look scary, but I am your

friend. I was the one who saved you from those others. From the Dark Uncle and

his shape-shifters."

That was twice he had mentioned the Dark Uncle. "Who is he?" she asked. "Is he

the one who hurt us?"

"He is a Druid. Walker is his name. He is the one who attacked your home and

killed your parents and your brother." The reptilian eyes fixed on her. "Think

back. You will remember seeing his face."

To her surprise, she did. She saw it clearly, a glimpse of it as it passed a

window in the thin dawn light, dusky skin and black beard, eyes so piercing they

stripped you bare, dark brow creased with frown lines. She saw him, knew him for

her enemy, and felt a rage of such intensity she thought she might burn from the

inside out.

Then she was crying, thinking of her parents and her brother, of her home and

her lost world. The man across from her drew her gently into his arms and held

her close.

"You cannot go back," he told her. "They will be searching for you. They will

never give up while they think you are alive."

She nodded into his shoulder. "I hate them," she said in a thin, sharp wail.

"Yes, I know," he whispered. "You are right to hate them." His rough, guttural

voice tightened. "But listen to me, little one. I am the Morgawr. I am your

father and mother now. I am your family. I will help you to find a way to gain

revenge for what has been taken from you. I will teach you to ward yourself

against everything that might hurt you. I will teach you to be strong."

He whisked her away, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her

deeper into the woods to where a giant bird waited. He called the bird a Shrike,

and she flew on its back with him to another part of the Four Lands, one dark

and solitary and empty of sound and life. He cared for her as he said he would,

trained her in mind and body, and kept her safe. He told her more of the Druid

Walker, of his scheming and his hunger for power, of his long-sought goal of

dominance over all the Races in all the lands. He showed her images of the Druid

and his black-cloaked servants, and he kept her anger fired and alive within her

child's breast.

"Never forget what he has stolen from you," he would repeat. "Never forget what

you are owed for his betrayal."

After a time he began to teach her to use the wishsong as a weapon against which

no one could stand-not once she had mastered it and brought it under her

control, not once she had made it so much a part of her that its use seemed

second nature. He taught her that even a slight change in pitch or tone could

alter health to sickness and life to death. A Druid had such power, he told her.

The Druid Walker in particular. She must learn to be a match for him. She must

learn to use her magic to overcome his.

After a while she thought no longer of her parents and her brother, whom she

knew to be dead and lost to her forever; they were no more than bones buried in

the earth, a part of a past forever lost, of a childhood erased in a single day.

She gave herself over to her new life and to her mentor, her teacher, and her

friend. The Morgawr was all those while she grew through adolescence, all those

and much more. He was the shaper of her thinking and the navigator of her life.

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Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 2

He was the inspiration for her magic's purpose and the keeper of her dreams of

righting the wrongs she had suffered.

He called her his little Ilse Witch, and she took the name for her own. She

buried her given name with her past, and she never used it again.

TWO

Her memories of the past, already faded and tattered, fell away in an instant's

time as she stood in a woodland clearing a thousand miles from her lost home and

confronted the boy who claimed he was her brother.

"Grianne, it's Bek," he insisted. "Don't you remember?" She remembered

everything, of course, although no longer as clearly and sharply, no longer as

painfully. She remembered, but she refused to believe that her memories could be

brought to life with such painful clarity after so many years. She hadn't heard

her name spoken in all that time, hadn't spoken it herself, had barely even

thought of it. She was the Ilse Witch, and that name defined who and what she

was, and not the other. The other was for when she had achieved her revenge over

the Druid, for when she had gained sufficient recognition and power that when it

was spoken next, it would never again be forgotten by anyone.

But here was this slip of a boy speaking it now, daring to suggest that he had a

right to do so. She stared at him in disbelief and smoldering anger. Could he

really be her brother? Could he be Bek, alive in spite of what she had believed

for so long? Was it possible? She tried to make sense of the idea, to find a way

to address it, to form words to speak in response. But everything she thought to

say or do was jumbled and incoherent, refusing to be organized in a useful way.

Everything froze as if chained and locked, leaving her so frustrated with her

inability to act that she could barely keep herself from screaming.

"No!" she shouted finally. A single word, spoken like an oath offered up against

demon spawn, it escaped her lips when nothing else dared.

"Grianne," he said, more softly now.

She saw the mop of dark brown hair and the startling blue eyes, so like her own,

so familiar to her. He had her build and looks. He had something else, as well,

something she had yet to define, but was unmistakably there. He could be Bek.

But how? How could he be Bek?

"Bek is dead," she hissed at him, her slender body rigid within the dark robes.

On the ground to one side, a small bundle of clothing and shadows, Ryer Ord Star

knelt, head lowered in the veil of her long silver hair, hands clasped in her

lap. She had not moved since the Ilse Witch had appeared out of the night, had

not lifted her head an inch or spoken a single word. In the silence and

darkness, she might have been a statue carved of stone and set in place by her

maker to ward a traveler's place of rest.

The Ilse Witch's eyes passed over her in a heartbeat and fell upon the boy. "Say

something!" she hissed anew. "Tell me why I should believe you!"

"I was saved by a shape-shifter called Truls Rohk," he answered finally, his

gaze on her steady. "I was taken to the Druid Walker, who in turn took me to the

people who raised me as their son. But I am Bek."

"You could not know any of this! You were only two when I hid you in that

cellar!" She caught herself. "When I hid my brother. But my brother is dead, and

you are a liar!"

"I was told most of it," he admitted. "I don't remember anything of how I was

saved. But look at me, Grianne. Look at us! You can't mistake the resemblance,

how much alike we are. We have the same eyes and coloring. We're brother and

sister! Don't you feel it?"

She advanced a step. "Why would a shape-shifter save you when it was

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shape-shifters who killed my parents and took me prisoner? Why would the Druid

save you when he sought to imprison me?"

The boy was already shaking his head slowly, deliberately, his blue eyes

intense, his young face determined. "No, Grianne, it wasn't the shape-shifters

or the Druid who killed our parents and took you away. They were never your

enemies. Don't you realize the truth yet? Think about it, Grianne."

"I saw his face!" she screamed in fury. "I saw it through a window, a glimpse,

passing in the dawn light, just before the attack, before I ..."

She trailed off, wondering suddenly, unexpectedly, if she could have been

mistaken. Had she seen the Druid as the Morgawr had insisted, when he told her

to think back, so certain she would? How could he have known what she would see?

The implication of what it would mean if she had deceived herself was

staggering. She brushed it away violently, but it coiled up in a corner of her

memory, a snake still easily within reach.

"We are Ohmsfords, Grianne," the boy continued softly. "But so is Walker. We

share the same heritage. He comes from the same bloodline as we do. He is one of

us. He has no reason to do us harm."

"None that you could fathom, it appears!" She laughed derisively. "What would

you know of dark intentions, little boy?

What has life shown you that would give you the right to suppose your insight

into such things is better than mine?"

"Nothing." He seemed momentarily at a loss for words, but his face spoke of his

need to find them. "I haven't lived your life, I know. But I'm not naive about

what it must have been like."

Her patience slipped a notch. "I think you believe what you are telling me," she

told him coldly. "I think you have been carefully schooled to believe it. But

you are a dupe and a tool of clever men. Druids and shape-shifters make their

way in the world by deceiving others. They must have looked long and hard to

find you, a boy who looks so much like Bek would look at your age. They must

have congratulated themselves on their good fortune."

"How did I come to have his name, then?" the boy snapped in reply. "If I'm not

your brother, how do I have his name? It is the name I was given, the name I

have always had!"

"Or at least, that is what you believe. A Druid can make you embrace lies with

little more than a thought, even lies about yourself." She shook her head

reprovingly. "You are sadly deceived, to believe as you do, to think yourself a

dead boy. I should destroy you on the spot, but perhaps that is what the Druid

is hoping I will do, what he wants me to do. Perhaps he thinks it will somehow

damage me if I kill a boy who looks so like my brother. Tell me where the Druid

waits, and I will spare you."

The boy stared at her in horror. "You are the one who is deceived, Grianne. So

much so that you will tell yourself anything to keep the truth at bay."

"Where is the Druid?" she snapped, her face contorting angrily. "Tell me now!"

He took a deep breath, straightening. "I've come a long way for this meeting.

Too far to be intimidated into giving up what I know is true and right. I am

your brother. I am Bek. Grianne-"

"Don't call me that!" she screamed. Her gray robes billowed from her body and

she threw up her arms in fury, almost as if to smother his words, to bury them

along with her past. She felt her temper slipping, her grip on herself sliding

away like metal on oiled metal, and the raw power of her voice took on an edge

that could easily cut to ribbons anything or anyone against which it was

directed. "Don't speak my name again!"

He stood his ground. "What name should I speak? Ilse Witch? Should I call you

Side 5

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摘要：

Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 2ONEGrianne Ohmsford was six years old on the last day of her childhood. She was small for her age and lacked unusual strength of body or extraordinary life experience and was not therefore particularly well prepared for growing up all at once. She had...

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