Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

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he King of the Silver River stood at the edge of the

Gardens that had been his domain since the dawn of

' the age of faerie and iooked out over the world of

mortal men. What he saw left him sad and discouraged. Every-

where the land sickened and died, rich black earth turning to

dust, grassy plains withering, forests becoming huge stands of

deadwood, and lakes and rivers either stagnating or drying away.

Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickened and

died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment

they relied upon grew poisoned. Even the air had begun to turn

foul.

And all the while, the King of the Silver River thought, the

Shadowen grow stronger.

His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the

cyclamen that grew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just

beyond, dogwood and cherry farther back, fuchsia and hibiscus,

rhododendrons and dahlias, beds of iris, azaleas, daffodils,

roses, and a hundred other varieties of flowers and flowering

plants that were always in bloom, a profusion of colors that

stretched away into the distance until lost from sight. There were

animals to be seen as well, both large and small, creatures whose

evolution could be traced back to that distant time when all

f-ings lived in harmony and psace.

In me present world, the world of the Four Lands and the

Races that had evolved out of the chaos and destruction of the

Great Wars, that time was all but forgotten. The King of

the Silver River was its sole remnant. He had been alive when

the world was new and its firsi creatures were just being born.

He had been young then, and tilers had been many like him.

Now he was old and he was the lasi of his kind. Everything that

2 The Druid of Shannara

had been, save for the Gardens in which he lived, had passed

away. The Gardens alone survived, changeless, sustained by the

magic of faerie. The Word had given the Gardens to the King

of the Silver River and told him to tend them, to keep them as a

reminder of what had once been and what might one day be

again. The world without would evolve as it must, but the Gar-

dens would remain forever the same.

Even so, they were shrinking. It was not so much physical as

spiritual. The boundaries of the Gardens were fixed and unal-

terable, for the Gardens existed in a plane of being unaffected

by changes in the world of mortal men. The Gardens were a

presence rather than a place. Yet that presence was diminished

by the sickening of the world to which it was tied, for the work

of the Gardens and their tender was to keep that world strong.

As the Four Lands grew poisoned, the work became harder, the

effects of that work grew shorter, and the boundaries of human

belief and trust in its existence—always somewhat marginal—

began to fail altogether.

The King of the Silver River grieved that this should be. He

did not grieve for himself; he was beyond that. He grieved for

the people of the Four Lands, the mortal men and women for

whom the magic of faerie was in danger of being lost forever.

The Gardens had been their haven in the land of the Silver River

Side 1

Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

for centuries, and he had been the spirit friend who protected

its people. He had watched over them, had given them a sense

of peace and well-being that transcended physical boundaries,

and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were still ac-

cessible in some comers of the world to all. Now that was ended.

Now he could protect no one. The evil of the Shadowen, the

poison they had inflicted upon the Four Lands, had eroded his

own strength until he was virtually sealed within his Gardens,

powerless to go to the aid of those he had worked so long to

protect.

He stared out into the ruin of the world for a time as his

despair worked its relentless will on him. Memories played hide-

and-seek in his mind. The Druids had protected the Four Lands

once. But the Druids were gone. A handful of descendents of

the Elven house of Shannara had been champions of the Races

for generations, wielding the remnants of the magic of faerie.

But they were all dead.

He forced his despair away, replacing it with hope. The Dru-

ids could come again. And there were new generations of the

old house of Shannara. The King of the Silver River knew most

The Druid of Shannara 3

of what was happening in the Four Lands even if he could not

go out into them. Allanon's shade had summoned a scattering

of Shannara children to recover the lost magic, and perhaps they

yet would if they could survive long enough to find a means to

do so. But all of them had been placed in extreme peril. All

were in danger of dying, threatened in the east, south, and west

by the Shadowen and in the north by Uhl Belk, the Stone King.

The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed

to save the Shannara children—an act of magic, one so powerful

and intricate that nothing could prevent it from succeeding, one

that would transcend the barriers that their enemies had created,

that would break past the screen of deceit and lies that hid ev-

erything from the four on whom so much depended.

Yes, four, not three. Even Allanon did not understand the

whole of what was meant to be.

He turned and made his way back toward the center of his

refuge. He let the songs of the birds, the fragrances of the flow-

ers, and the warmth of the air soothe him as he walked and he

drew in through his senses the color and taste and feel of all that

lay about him. There was virtually nothing that he could not do

within his Gardens. Yet his magic was needed without. He knew

what was required. In preparation he took the form of the old

man that showed himself occasionally to the world beyond. His

gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, his

eyes dimmed, and his body ached with the feelings of life fad-

ing. The birdsong stopped, and the small animals that had

crowded close edged quickly away. He forced himself to sepa-

rate from everything he had evolved into, receding into what he

might have been, needing momentarily to feel human mortality

in order to know better how to give that part of himself that was

needed.

When he reached the heart of his domain, he stopped. There

was a pond of clearest water fed by a small stream. A unicorn

drank from it. The earth that cradled the pond was dark and

rich. Tiny, delicate flowers that had no name grew at the water's

edge; they were the color of new snow. A small, intricately

Side 2

Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

formed tree lifted out of a scattering of violet grasses at the

pond's far end, its delicate green leaves laced with red. From a

pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmered brightly

in the sunshine.

The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the

presence of the life that surrounded him and willed himself to

become one with it. When he had done so, when everything had

4 The Druid of Shannara

threaded itself through the human form he had taken as if joined

by bits and pieces of invisible lacing, he reached out to gather

it all in. His hands, wrinkled human skin and brittle bones,

lifted and summoned his magic, and the feelings of age and

. time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.

The little tree came to him first, uprooted, transported, and

set down before him, the framework of bones on which he would

build. Slowly it bent to take the shape he desired, leaves folding

close against the branches, wrapping and sealing away. The earth

came next, handfuls lifted by invisible scoops to place against

the tree, padding and defining. Then came the ores for muscle,

the waters for fluids, and me petals of the tiny flowers for skin.

He gathered silk from the unicorn's mane for hair and black

pearls for eyes. The magic twisted and wove, and slowly his

creation took form.

When he was finished, the girl who stood before him was

perfect in every way but one. She was not yet alive.

He cast about momentarily, then selected the dove. He took

it out of the air and placed it still living inside the girl's breast

where it became her heart. Quickly he moved forward to em-

brace her and breathed his own life into her. Then he stepped

back to wait.

The girl's breast rose and fell, and her limbs twitched. Her

eyes fluttered open, coal black as they peered out from her del-

icate white features. She was small boned and finely wrought

like a piece of paper art smoothed and shaped so that the edges

and comers were replaced by curves. Her hair was so white it

seemed silver; there was a glitter to it that suggested the pres-

ence of that precious metal.

' 'Who am I? " she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered

of tiny streams and small night sounds.

"You are my daughter," the King of the Silver River an-

swered, discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he

had thought long since lost.

He did not bother telling her that she was an elemental, an

earth child created of his magic. She could sense what she was

from the instincts with which he had endowed her. No other

explanation was needed.

She took a tentative step forward, then another. Finding that

she could walk, she began to move more quickly, testing her

abilities in various ways as she circled her father, glancing cau-

Side 3

Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

tiously, shyly at the old man as she went. She looked around

curiously, taking in the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of the

The Druid of Shannara 5

Gardens, discovering in them a kinship that she could not im-

mediately explain.

"Are these Gardens my mother?" she asked suddenly, and

he told her they were. "Am I a part of you both?" she asked,

and he told her yes.

"Come with me," he said gently.

Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the

manner of a parent and child, looking into flowers, watching

for the quick movement of birds and animals, studying the vast,

intricate designs of the tangled undergrowth, the complex layers

of rock and earth, and the patterns woven by the threads of the

Gardens' existence. She was bright and quick, interested in ev-

erything, respectful of life, caring. He was pleased with what

he saw; he found that he had made her well.

After a time, he began to show her something of the magic.

He demonstrated his own first, only the smallest bits and pieces

of it so as not to overwhelm her. Then he let her test her own

against it. She was surprised to learn that she possessed it, even

more surprised to discover what it could do. But she was not

hesitant about using it. She was eager.

"You have a name," he told her. "Would you like to know

what it is?"

"Yes," she answered, and stood looking at him alertly.

"Your name is Quickening." He paused. "Do you under-

stand why?"

She thought a moment. "Yes," she answered again.

He led her to an ancient hickory whose bark peeled back in

great, shaggy strips from its trunk. The breezes cooled there,

smelling of jasmine and begonia, and the grass was soft as they

sat together. A griffin wandered over through the tall grasses

and nuzzled the girl's hand.

"Quickening," the King of the Silver River said. "There is

something you must do."

Slowly, carefully he explained to her that she must leave the

Gardens and go out into the world of men. He told her where it

was that she must go and what it was that she must do. He talked

of the Dark Uncle, the Highlander, and the nameless other, of

the Shadowen, of Uhl Belk and Eldwist, and of the Black Elf-

stone. As he spoke to her, revealing the truth behind who and

what she was, he experienced an aching within his breast that

was decidedly human, part of himself that had been submerged

for many centuries. The ache brought a sadness that threatened

to cause his voice to break and his eyes to tear. He stopped once

6 The Druid of Shannara

in surprise to fight back against it. It required some effort to

resume speaking. The girl watched him without comment-

intense, introspective, expectant. She did not argue with what

he told her and she did not question it. She simply listened and

accepted.

Side 4

Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

When he was done, she stood up. "I understand what is

expected of me. I am ready."

But the King of the Silver River shook his head. "No, child,

you are not. You will discover that when you leave here. Despite

who you are and what you can do, you are vulnerable neverthe-

less to things against which I cannot protect you. Be careful then

to protect yourself. Be on guard against what you do not under-

stand."

"I will," she replied.

He walked with her to the edge of the Gardens, to where the

world of men began, and together they stared out at the en-

croaching ruin. They stood without speaking for a very long

time before she said, "I can tell that I am needed there."

He nodded bleakly, feeling the loss of her already though she

had not yet departed. She is only an elemental, he thought and

knew immediately that he was wrong. She was a great deal

more. As much as if he had given birth to her, she was a part

of him.

"Goodbye, Father," she said suddenly and left his side.

She walked out of the Gardens and disappeared into the world

beyond. She did not kiss him or touch him in parting. She simply

left, because that was all she knew to do.

The King of the Silver River turned away. His efforts had

wearied him, had drained him of his magic. He needed time to

rest. Quickly he shed his human image, stripping away the false

covering of skin and bones, washing himself clean of its mem-

ories and sensations, and reverting to the faerie creature he was.

Even so, what he felt for Quickening, his daughter, the child

of his making, stayed with him.

) alker Boh came awake with a shudder.

WDark Uncle.

The whisper of a voice in his mind jerked

him back from the edge of the black pool into which he was

sliding, pulled him from the inky dark into the gray fringes of

the light, and he started so violently that the muscles of his legs

cramped. His head snapped up from the pillow of his arm, his

eyes slipped open, and he stared blankly ahead. There was pain

all through his body, endless waves of it. The pain wracked him

as if he had been touched by a hot iron, and he curled tightly

into himself in a futile effort to ease it. Only his right arm re-

mained outstretched, a heavy and cumbersome thing that no

longer belonged to him, fastened forever to the floor of the

cavern on which he lay, turned to stone to the elbow.

The source of the pain was there.

He closed his eyes against it, willing it to disperse, to disap-

pear. But he lacked the strength to command it, his magic al-

most gone, dissipated by his struggle to resist the advancing

poison of the Asphinx. It was seven days now since he had come

Side 5

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摘要：

Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannarahe King of the Silver River stood at the edge of theGardens that had been his domain since the dawn of' the age of faerie and iooked out over the world ofmortal men. What he saw left him sad and discouraged. Every-where the land sickened and died, rich black earth...

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Terry Brooks - The Druid Of Shannara

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