Terry Brooks - Shannara Heritage 2 Druid Of Shannara

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The Druid Of Shannara
Heritage of Shannara vol. 2
Terry Brooks
The 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
1
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
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
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-
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.
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.
II
) 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
into the Hall of Kings in search of the Black Elfstone, seven
days since he had found instead the deadly creature that had
been placed there to snare him.
Oh, yes, he thought feverishly. Definitely to snare him.
But by whom? By the Shadowen or by someone else? Who
now had possession of the Black Elfstone?
He recalled in despair the events that had brought him to this
end. There had been the summons from the shade of Allanon,
dead three hundred years, to the heirs of,the Shannara magic:
his nephew Par Ohmsford, his cousin Wren Ohmsford, and him-
self. They had received the summons and a visit from the once-
8 The Druid of Shannam
Druid Cogline urging them to heed it. They had done so, assem-
bling at the Hadeshom, ancient resting place of the Druids,
where Allanon had appeared to them and charged them with
separate undertakings that were meant to combat the dark work
of the Shadowen who were using magic of their own to steal
away the life of the Four Lands. Walker had been charged with
recovering Paranor, the disappeared home of the Druids, and
with bringing back the Druids themselves. He had resisted this
charge until Cogline had come to him again, this time bearing
a volume of the Druid Histories which told of a Black Elfstone
which had the power to retrieve Paranor. That in turn had led
him to the Grimpond, seer of the earth's and mortal men's se-
crets.
He searched the gloom of the cavern about him, the doors to
the tombs of the Kings of the Four Lands dead all these centu-
ries, the wealth piled before the crypts in which they lay, and
the stone sentinels that kept watch over their remains. Stone eyes
stared out of blank faces, unseeing, unheeding. He was alone
with their ghosts.
He was dying.
Tears filled his eyes, blinding him as he fought to hold them
back. He was such a fool!
Dark Uncle. The words echoed soundlessly, a memory that
taunted and teased. The voice was the Grimpond's, that
wretched, insidious spirit responsible for what had befallen him.
It was the Grimpond's riddles that had led him to the Hall of
Kings in search of the Black Elfstone. The Grimpond must have
known what awaited him, that there would be no Elfstone but
the Asphinx instead, a deadly trap that would destroy him.
And why had he thought it would be otherwise? Walker asked
himself bleakly. Didn't the Grimpond hate him above all others?
Hadn't it boasted to Walker that it was sending him to his doom
by giving him what he asked for? Walker had simply gone out
of his way to accommodate the spirit, anxiously rushing off to
greet the death that he had been promised, blithely believing
that he could protect himself against whatever evil he might
encounter. Remember? he chided himself. Remember how con-
fident you were?
He convulsed as the poison burned into him. Well and good.
But where was his confidence now?
He forced himself to his knees and bent down over the open-
ing in the cavern floor where his hand was pinned to the stone.
He could just make out the remains of the Asphinx, the snake's
The Druid of Shannam 9
stone body coiled about his own stone arm, the two of them
forever joined, fastened to the rock of the mountain. He tight-
ened his mouth and pulled up the sleeve of his cloak. His arm
was hard and unyielding, gray to the elbow, and streaks of gray
worked their way upward toward his shoulder. The process was
slow, but steady. His entire body was turning to stone.
Not that it mattered if it did, he thought, because he would
starve to death long before that happened. Or die of thirst. Or
of the poison.
He let the sleeve fall back into place, covering the horror of
what he had become. Seven days gone. What little food he'd
brought with him had been consumed almost immediately, and
he'd drunk the last of his water two days ago. His strength was
failing rapidly now. He was feverish most of the time, his lucid
periods growing shorter. He had struggled against what was
happening at first, trying to use his magic to banish the poison
from his body, to restore his hand and arm to flesh and blood.
But his magic had failed him completely. He had worked at
freeing his arm from the stone flooring, thinking that it might
be pried loose in some way. But he was held fast, a condemned
man with no hope of release. Eventually his exhaustion had
forced him to sleep, and as the days passed he had slept more
often, slipping further and further away from wanting to come
awake.
Now, as he knelt in a huddle of darkness and pain, salvaged
momentarily from the wreckage of his dying by the voice of the
Grimpond, he realized with terrifying certainty that if he went
to sleep again it would be for good. He breathed in and out
rapidly, choking back his fear. He must not let that happen. He
must not give up.
He forced himself to think. As long as he could think, he
reasoned, he would not fall asleep. He retraced in his mind his
conversation with the Grimpond, hearing again the spirit's
words, trying anew to decipher their meaning. The Grimpond
had not named the-Hall of Kings in describing where the Black
Elfstone could be found. Had Walker simply jumped to the
wrong conclusion? Had he been deliberately misled? Was there
any truth in what he had been told?
Walker's thoughts scattered in confusion, and his mind re-
fused to respond to the demands he placed on it. He closed his
摘要：

TheDruidOfShannaraHeritageofShannaravol.2TerryBrooksTheKingoftheSilverRiverstoodattheedgeoftheGardensthathadbeenhisdomainsincethedawnof'theageoffaerieandiookedoutovertheworldofmortalmen.Whathesawlefthimsadanddiscouraged.Every-wherethelandsickenedanddied,richblackearthturningtodust,grassyplainswither...

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