The Wishsong of Shannara (7 page)

“So.” The word was a soft, quick whisper; and Allanon’s tall form seemed to suddenly grow taller. “What part of the truth would you have me reveal, Prince of Leah?”

Rone held his ground. “This much, Druid. You tell Brin that she must come with you into the Eastland because you lack the power necessary to penetrate the barrier that protects the book of dark magic—you, who are the keeper of the secrets of the Druids, who possess power enough to destroy Skull Bearers and Demons alike! Yet you need her. And what does she have that you don’t? The wishsong. Nothing more, just that. It lacks even the power of the Elfstones! It is a magic toy that changes the colors of leaves and causes flowers to bloom! What kind of protection is that?”

Allanon stared at him silently for a moment and then smiled, a faint, sad smile. “What kind of power, indeed?”

he murmured. He looked suddenly at Brin. “Do you, too, harbor these doubts the highlander voices? Do you seek a better understanding of the wishsong? Shall I show you something of its use?”

It was cold the way he said it, but Brin nodded. “Yes.” The Druid strode past her, seized the reins of his horse and mounted. “Come then, and I will show you, Valegirl,” he said.

They rode north in silence along the Mermidon, winding their way through the rocky forestland, the light of the sunrise breaking through the trees on their left, the shadow of the Runne Mountains a dark wall on their right. They rode for more than an hour, a grim, voiceless procession. Then at last the Druid signaled a halt, and they dismounted.

“Leave the horses,” he instructed.

They walked west into the forest, the Druid leading the Valegirl and the highlander across a ridge and down into a heavily wooded hollow. After several minutes of fighting their way through the’ tangled undergrowth, Allanon stopped and turned.

“Now then, Brin.” He pointed ahead into the brush. “Pretend that this hollow is the barrier of dark magic through which you must pass. How would you use the wishsong to gain passage?”

She glanced about uncertainly. “I’m not sure . . .”

“Not sure?” He shook his head. “Think of the uses to which you have put the magic. Have you used it as the Prince of Leah suggests to bring autumn color to the leaves of a tree? Have you used it to bring flowers to bloom, leaves to bud, plants to grow?” She nodded. “You have used it, then, to change color and shape and behavior. Do so here. Make the brush part for you.”

She looked at him a moment and then nodded. This was more than she had ever asked of herself, and she was not convinced she had the power. Moreover, it had been a long time since she had used the magic. But she would try. Softly, she began to sing. Her voice was low and even, the song blending with the sounds of the forest. Then slowly she changed its pitch, and it rose until all else had faded into stillness. Words came, unrehearsed, spontaneous and somehow intuitively felt as she reached out to the brush that blocked her passage. Slowly the tangle drew back, leaves and branches withdrawing in winding ribbons of sleek green.

A moment later, the way forward lay open to the center of the hollow.

“Simple enough, don’t you agree?” But the Druid wasn’t really asking. “Let’s see where your path takes us.”

He started ahead again, black robes drawn close. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who shrugged his lack of understanding. They followed after the Druid. Seconds later he stopped again, this time pointing to an elm, its trunk bent and stunted within the shadow of a taller, broader oak. The elm’s limbs had grown into those of the oak, twisting upward in a futile effort to reach the sunlight.

“A bit harder task this time, Brin,” Allanon said suddenly. “That elm would be much better off if the sun could reach it. I want you to straighten it, bring it upright, and disentangle it from the oak.”

Brin looked at the two trees doubtfully. They seemed too closely entwined. “I don’t think I can do that,” she told him quietly.

“Try.”

“The magic is not strong enough . . .”

“Try anyway,” he cut her short.

So she sang, the wishsong enfolding the other sounds of the forest until there was nothing else, rising brightly into the morning air. The elm shuddered, limbs quaking in response. Brin lifted the pitch of her song, sensing the tree’s resistance, and the words formed a harder edge. The stunted trunk of the elm drew back from the oak, its limbs scraping and tearing and its leaves ripped violently from their stems.

Then, with shocking suddenness, the entire tree seemed to heave upward and explode in a shower of fragmented limbs, twigs, and leaves that rained down across the length of the hollow. Astonished, Brin stumbled back, shielding her face with her hands, the wishsong dying into instant stillness. She would have fallen but for Allanon, who caught her in his arms, held her protectively until the shower had subsided, then turned her to face him.

“What happened . . .?” she began, but he quickly put a finger to her lips.

“Power, Valegirl,” he whispered. “Power in your wishsong far greater than what you have imagined. That elm could not disentangle itself from the oak. Its limbs were far too stiff, far too heavily entwined. Yet it could not refuse your song. It had no choice but to pull free—even when the result meant destroying itself!”

“Allanon!” She shook her head in disbelief.

“You have that power, Brin Ohmsford. As with all things magic, there is a dark side as well as a light.” The Druid’s face came closer. “You have played with changing the colors of a tree’s leaves. Think what would happen if you carried the seasonal change you wrought to its logical conclusion. The tree would pass from autumn into winter, from winter into spring, from seasonal change to seasonal change. At last it would have passed through the entire cycle of its life. It would die.”

“Druid . . .” Rone warned and started forward, but a single dark glance from the other’s eyes froze him in his tracks.

“Stand, Prince of Leah. Let her hear the truth.” The black eyes again found Brin’s. “You have played with the wishsong as you would a curious toy because that is all the use you saw for it. Yet you knew that it was more than that, Valegirl—always, deep inside, you knew. Elven magic has always been more than that. Yours is the magic of the Elfstones, born into new form in its passage from your father’s blood to your own. There is power in you of a sort that transcends any that has gone before—latent perhaps, yet the potential is unmistakable. Consider for a moment the nature of this magic you wield. The wishsong can change the behavior of any living thing! Can you not see what that means? Supple brush can be made to part for you, giving you access where there was none before. Unbending trees can be made to part as well, though they shatter with the effort. If you can bring color to leaves, you can also drain it away. If you can cause flowers to bloom, you can also cause them to wilt. If you can give life, Brin, you can also take it away.”

She stared at him, horrified. “What are you saying?” she whispered harshly. “That the wishsong can kill? That I would use it to kill? Do you think . . .?”

“You asked to be shown something of its use,” Allanon cut short her protestations. “I have simply done as you wished. But I think now you will no longer doubt that the magic is much more than you thought it was.”

Brin’s dusky face burned with anger. “I no longer doubt, Allanon. Nor should you doubt this—that even so, I would never use the wishsong to kill! Never!”

The Druid held her gaze, yet the hard features softened slightly. “Not even to save your own life? Or perhaps the life of the highlander? Not even then?”

She did not look away. “Never.”

The Druid stared at the Valegirl a moment longer—as if to measure in some way the depth of her commitment. Then abruptly he wheeled away and started back toward the slope of the hollow.

“You have seen enough, Brin. We have to get on with our journey. Think about what you have learned.”

His black form disappeared into the brush. Brin stood where he had left her, aware suddenly that her hands were shaking. That tree! The way it had simply shattered, torn apart . . .

“Brin.” Rone was standing before her, and his hands came up to grip her shoulders. She winced at their touch. “We can’t go on with him—not anymore. He plays games with us as he has done with all the others. Leave him and his foolish quest and come back with me mow to the Vale.”

She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “No. It was necessary that I see this.”

“None of this is necessary, for cat’s sake!” His big hands drew back and fastened about the pommel of the Sword of Leah. “If he does something like that again, I’ll not think twice . . .”

“No, Rone.” She put her hands over his. She was calm once more, realizing suddenly that she had missed something. “What he did was not done simply to frighten or intimidate me. It was done to teach me, and it was done out of a need for haste. It was in his eyes. Could you not see it?”

He shook his head. “I saw nothing. What need for haste?” She looked to where the Druid had gone. “Something is wrong. Something.”

Then she thought again of the destruction of the tree, of the Druid’s words of warning, and of her vow. Never! She looked quickly back at Rone. “Do you think I could use the wishsong to kill?” she asked softly.

For just an instant he hesitated. “No.”

Even to save your life? she thought. And what if it were not a tree that threatened, but a living creature? Would I destroy it to save you? Oh, Rone, what if it were a human being?

“Will you still come with me on this journey?” she asked him.

He gave her his most rakish smile. “Right up to the moment when we take that confounded book and shred it.”

Then he bent to kiss her lightly on the mouth, and her arms came up to hold him close. “We’ll be all right,” she heard him say.

And she answered, “I know.”

But she was no longer sure.

VI

W
hen Jair Ohmsford regained consciousness, he found himself trussed hand and foot and securely lashed against a tree trunk. He was no longer in the hunting lodge but in a clearing sheltered by closely grown fir that loomed over him like sentinels set to watch. A dozen feet in front of him, a small fire burned, casting its faint glow into the shadowed dark of the silent trees. Night lay over the land.

“Awake again, boy?”

The familiar, chiding voice came from out of the darkness to his left, and he turned his head slowly, searching. A squat, motionless figure crouched at the edge of the firelight, Jair started to reply, then realized that he was not only tied; he was gagged as well.

“Oh yes, sorry about that,” the other spoke again. “Had to put the gag in, of course. Couldn’t have you using your magic on me a second time, could I? Do you have any idea how long it took me to get out of that wood bin?”

Jair sagged back against the tree, remembering. The Gnome at the inn—that was who had followed him, caught up with him at Rone’s hunting lodge, and struck him from behind  . . .

He winced at the memory, finding that the side of his head still throbbed.

“Nice trick, that thing with the snakes.” The Gnome chuckled faintly. He rose and came into the firelight, seating himself cross-legged a few feet from his prisoner. Narrow green eyes studied Jair speculatively. “I thought you harmless, boy—not some Druid’s whelp. Worse luck for me, eh? There I was, sure you’d be so scared that you’d tell me right off what I wanted to know—tell me anything just to get rid of me. Not you, though. Snakes on my arms and a four-foot limb bashed up against my head, that’s what you gave me. Lucky I’m alive!”

The blocky yellow face cocked slightly. “Course, that was your mistake.” A blunt finger came up sharply. “You should have finished me. But you didn’t, and that gave me another chance at you. Suppose that’s the way you are, though, being from the Vale. Anyway, once I got free of that wood bin, I came after you like a fox after a rabbit. Too bad for you, too, because I wasn’t about to let you escape, after what you’d put me through. Not by a whisker’s cut, I wasn’t! Those other fools, they’d have let you outrun them. But not me. Tracked you three days. Almost had you at the river, but you were already across and I couldn’t pick up your trail at night. Had to wait. But I caught you napping at that lodge, didn’t I?”

He laughed cheerfully and Jair flushed with anger. “Oh, don’t be angry with me—I was just doing my job. Besides, it was a matter of pride. Twenty years, and no one’s ever gotten the best of me until now. And then it’s some nothing boy. Couldn’t live with that Oh, knocking you senseless— had to do that, too. Like I said, couldn’t be taking chances with the magic.”

He got up and came a few steps closer, his rough face screwed up with obvious curiosity. “It was magic, wasn’t it? How’d you learn to do that? It’s in the voice, right? You make the snakes come by using the voice. Quite a trick. Scared the wits out of me, and I thought there wasn’t much left that could scare me.” He paused. “Except maybe the walkers.”

Jair’s eyes glistened with fear at mention of the Mord Wraiths. The Gnome saw it and nodded. “Something to be scared of, they are. Black all through. Dark as midnight. Wouldn’t want them hunting me. Don’t know how you got past that one back at the house  . . .”

He stopped suddenly and bent forward. “Hungry, boy?” Jair nodded. The Gnome regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then rose. “Tell you what. I’ll loosen the gag and feed you if you promise not to use the magic on me. Wouldn’t do you much good anyway trussed up to that tree—not unless those snakes of yours can chew through ropes. I’ll feed you and we can talk a bit. The others won’t catch up until morning. What about it?”

Jair thought it over a moment, then nodded his agreement. He was famished.

“Done, then.” The Gnome came over and slipped free the gag. One hand fastened tightly to Jair’s chin. “Your word now—let’s have it. No magic.”

“No magic,” Jair repeated, wincing.

“Good. Good.” The Gnome let his hand drop. “You’re one who keeps his word, I’m betting. Man’s only as good as his word, you know.” He reached down to his waist for a hard leather container, released the stopper and brought it up to the Valeman’s lips. “Drink. Go on, take a swallow.”

Jair sipped at the unknown liquid, his throat dry and tight. It was an ale, harsh and bitter, and it burned all the way down. Jair choked and drew back, and the Gnome recapped the container and returned it to his belt. Then he sat back on his haunches, grinning.

“I’m called Slanter.”

“Jair Ohmsford.” Jair was still trying to swallow. “I guess you knew that.”

Slanter nodded. “I did. Should have found out a bit more, it appears. Quite a chase you took me on.”

Jair frowned. “How did you manage to catch up to me? I didn’t think anyone could catch me.”

“Oh, that.” The Gnome sniffed. “Well, not just anyone could have caught you. But then I’m not just anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

The Gnome laughed. “I mean I’m a tracker, boy. It’s what I do. Fact is, it’s what I do better than just about anyone else alive. That’s why they brought me, the others. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been tracking.”

“Me?” Jair asked in astonishment.

“No, not you—the Druid! The one they call Allanon. It was him I was tracking. You just happened to cross my path at the wrong time.”

A look of bewilderment crossed the Valeman’s face. This Gnome was a tracker? No wonder he hadn’t been able to escape him as he would have another man. But tracking Allanon  . . .?

Slanter shook his head helplessly and climbed to his feet. “Look, I’ll explain it all to you, but first let’s have something to eat. I had to carry you down from that hunting lodge two miles distant, and you may look small but you weigh better than your size. Worked up a pretty good appetite while you rested. Sit still, now—I’ll put something on the fire.”

Slanter retrieved a knapsack from the other side of the clearing, pulled clear some cooking utensils and within minutes had a beef and vegetable stew simmering over the fire. The smell of the cooking food wafted through the night air to Jair’s nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He was beyond famished, he decided. He had not had a decent meal since he had left the inn. Besides, he needed to keep his strength up if he was to have any chance of escaping this fellow, and he had every intention of doing so at the first opportunity.

When the stew was finished, Slanter brought it over to where he was tied and hand-fed him mouthfuls, sharing the meal with him. The food tasted wonderful, and they ate all that there was, together with an end of bread and some cheese. Slanter drank more of the ale, but gave Jair sips from a cup of water.

“Not a bad stew if I do say so myself,” the Gnome remarked afterward, bent next to the fire to scrape clean the pan. “Learned a few useful things over the years.”

“How long have you been a tracker?” Jair asked him, intrigued.

“Most of my life. Began learning when I was your age.” He finished with the cookware, stood up and came back over to the Valeman. “What do you know about trackers?”

Briefly Jair told him about the old tracker who had boarded at the inn, of their conversations, and of the tracking games they’d played while the man’s leg had healed. Slanter listened quietly, obvious interest reflected in his rough yellow features. When Jair had finished, the Gnome sat back, a distant look in his sharp eyes.

“I was like you once, long time ago. Used to think about nothing but being a tracker. Left home with one finally—an old Borderman. I was younger than you. Left home, went right out of the Eastland into Callahorn and the Northland. Gone better than fifteen years. Traveled all the lands at one time or another, you know. As much of them in me as Eastland Gnome. Odd, but I’m kind of a homeless sort because of it. Gnomes don’t really trust me, because I’ve been away too long, seen too much of what else there is ever to really be the same as them. A Gnome who’s not a Gnome. I’ve learned more than they ever will, shut away in the Eastland forests like they are. They know it, too. They barely tolerate me. They respect me, though, because I’m the best that there is at what I do.”

He glanced sharply at Jair. “That’s why I’m here—because I’m the best. The Druid Allanon—the fellow you don’t know, remember?—he came into the Ravenshorn and Graymark, tried to get down into the Maelmord. But nothing goes down into that pit, not Druid nor Devil. The Wraiths knew he was there and went after him. One walker, a patrol of Gnome Hunters, and me to track. Tracked to your village, then waited for someone’ to show. Thought someone would, even though it was pretty clear that the Druid had already gone elsewhere. And who should appear but you?”

Jair’s mind was racing. How much does he know? Does he know the reason that Allanon came to Shady Vale? Does he know about the  . . .? And suddenly he remembered the Elfstones, tucked hastily within his tunic when he fled the Vale. Did he still have them? Or had Slanter found them? Oh, shades!

Eyes still fixed on those of the Gnome, he shifted cautiously against the ropes that bound him, trying to feel the pressure of the Stones against his body. But it was hopeless. The ties knotted his clothing and gave him no sure feel for what he still had on him. He dared not look down, even for an instant.

“Ropes cutting a bit?” Slanter asked suddenly.

He shook his head. “I was just trying to get comfortable.” He forced himself to sit back and relax. He changed the subject back. “Why did you bother coming after me if you were supposed to be tracking Allanon?”

Slanter cocked his head slightly. “Because I was tracking the Druid to find out where he went, and I’ve done that. He went to your village, to your family. Now he’s gone back to the Eastland—isn’t that right? Oh, you needn’t answer. At least not to me. But you will have to answer to those who came with me when they get here in the morning. A bit slow they are, but sure. I had to leave them to be certain I caught you. You see, they want to know something of Allanon’s visit. They want to know why he came. And unfortunately for you, they want to know one thing more.”

He paused meaningfully, eyes boring into Jair. The Valeman took a deep breath. “About the magic?” he whispered.

“Sharp fellow.” Slanter’s smile was hard.

“What if I don’t want to tell them?”

“That would be foolish,” the Gnome said quietly.

They stared at each other wordlessly. “The Wraith would make me tell, wouldn’t he?” Jair asked finally.

“The Wraith is not your problem.” Slanter snorted. “The Wraith’s gone north after the Druid. The Sedt is your problem.”

The Valeman shook his head. “Sedt? What is a Sedt?”

“A Sedt is a Gnome chieftain—in this case, Spilk. He commands the patrol. A rather unpleasant fellow. Not like me, you see. Very much an Eastland Gnome. He would just as soon cut your throat as look at you. He’s your problem. You’d better answer the questions he asks.”

He shrugged. “Besides, once you’ve told Spilk what he wants to know, I’ll do what I can to see that you’re released. After all, our fight’s not with the Vale people. Our fight’s with the Dwarves. Not to disappoint you, but you’re really not all that important. That magic of yours is what’s interesting. No, you answer the questions and I think you’ll be turned loose quick enough.”

Jair eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”

Slanter drew back. “You don’t? Well, here’s my word on it, then. As good as your own.” Heavy eyebrows arched. “It means as much to me as yours does, boy. Now take it.”

Jair said nothing for a moment. Strangely enough, he thought the Gnome was telling him the truth. If he promised he would seek Jair’s release, he would do just that. If he thought Jair would be released on answering the questions asked, Jair probably would. Jair grimaced. On the other hand, why should he trust any Gnome?

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“You don’t know?” Slanter shook his head hopelessly. “You’d think you had a choice, boy. You don’t answer, Spilk goes to work on you. You still don’t answer, he turns you over to the walkers. What do you think happens to you then?”

Jair went cold to the bone. He didn’t care to think about what would happen then.

“I thought you were smart,” the Gnome continued, wizened yellow features twisting into a grimace. “Smart, the way you got past those others back there—even got past the walker. So stay smart. What difference does it make now what you tell anyone? What difference if you tell the Sedt why the Druid came to see you? The Druid’s gone by now anyway—won’t likely catch up to him this side of the Eastland. He wouldn’t tell you anything all that important anyway, would he? The magic—well, all they want to know about the magic is how you learned it. The Druid, maybe? Someone else?” He waited a moment, but Jair said nothing. “Well, anyway, just tell how you learned it and how you use it—simple enough and no skin off your nose. No games, just tell the truth. You do that, and that’s the end of your use.”

Again he waited for Jair to respond, and again the Valeman stayed silent.

Slanter shrugged. “Well, think on it.” He stood up, stretched, and came over to Jair. Smiling cheerfully, he replaced the gag in the Valeman’s mouth. “Sorry about the sleeping accommodations, but I can’t be taking many chances with you. You’ve shown me that much.”

Still smiling, he retrieved a blanket from the far side of the clearing, brought it over to Jair and wrapped it about him, tucking in the corners where the ropes bound him to the tree so that it would stay fixed. Then he walked over to the fire and kicked it out. In the faint glow of the embers, Jair could see his stocky form as it moved off into the dark.

“Ah, me—reduced to chasing down Valemen,” the Gnome muttered. “Waste of talent. Not even a Dwarf! At least they could give me a Dwarf to track. Or the Druid again. Bah! Druid’s gone back to help the Dwarves and here I sit, watching this boy  . . .”

He muttered on a bit more, most of it unintelligible, and then his voice faded away entirely.

Jair Ohmsford sat alone in the dark and wondered what he was going to do when morning came.