The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (183 page)

Yet the chase wore on. It did not end as a chase should end. It simply went on, an endless run through countryside that swept to the horizon. Though the creatures hunting them never quite managed to catch up to them, still there were always others lying in wait ahead. Exhilaration filled the pair at first. They were wild and free and nothing could touch them, brother and sister a match for all that sought to drag them down. But after a time, something changed. The change crept over them gradually, an insidious thing, until at last it lodged itself fully within them and they knew it for what it was. It had no name. It whispered to them of what must be: the race they ran could not be won for the things they ran from were a part of themselves; no horse, however swift, could carry them to safety. Look at what they were, the voice whispered, and they would see the truth.

Fly! Jair howled in fury, and urged his horse to run faster. But the voice whispered on, and about them the sky went steadily darker, the color faded from the land, and everything turned gray and dead. Fly! he screamed. He turned then to find Brin, sensing somehow that all was not well with her. The horror sprang to life before him and Brin was no longer there; she had been overtaken and consumed, swallowed by the dark monster that reached . . . that reached . . .

Jair’s eyes snapped open. Sweat bathed his face, and his clothing was damp beneath the cloak in which he lay wrapped. Stars twinkled softly overhead, and the night was still and at peace. Yet the dream lingered in his mind, a vivid, living thing.

Then he realized that the fire was burning brightly once more, its flames crackling on new wood in the dark. Someone had rebuilt it.

Slanter . . .?

Hurriedly he threw off the cloak and sat up, his eyes searching. Slanter was nowhere to be seen. A dozen feet away, Garet Jax slept undisturbed. Nothing had changed—nothing save the fire.

Then a figure stepped from the night, a thin and frail old man, his bent and aged frame clothed in white robes. Silver white hair and beard framed a weathered, gentle face, and a walking stick guided his way. Smiling warmly, he came into the light and stopped.

“Hello, Jair,” he greeted.

The Valeman stared. “Hello.”

“Dreams can be visions of what is to come, you know. And dreams can be warnings of what we must beware.”

Jair was speechless. The old man turned and came about the fire, picking his way with care until at last he stood before the Valeman. Then he lowered himself gingerly to the ground, a wisp of life that a strong wind might blow from the earth.

“Do you know me, Jair?” the old man asked, his voice a soft murmur in the silence. “Let your memory tell you.”

“I don’t . . .” Jair started to say and then stopped. As if the suggestion had triggered something deep within him, Jair knew at once who it was that sat across from him.

“Speak my name.” The other smiled.

Jair swallowed. “You are the King of the Silver River.” The old man nodded. “I am what you name me. I am also your friend, just as I once was friend to your father and to your great-grandfather before him—men with lives intertwined in purpose, given over to the land and her needs.”

Jair stared at him wordlessly, then suddenly remembered the sleeping Garet Jax. Would not the Weapons Master waken . . .?

“He will sleep while we talk,” his unspoken question was answered. “No one comes to disturb us this night, child of life.”

Child? Jair stiffened. But in the next instant his anger was gone, melted by what he saw in the other’s face—the warmth, the gentleness, the love. With this old man there could be no anger or harsh feelings. There could be only respect.

“Hear me now,” the aged voice whispered. “I have need of you, Jair. Let your thoughts have ears and eyes that you may understand.”

Then everything about the Valeman seemed to dissolve away, and within his mind images began to form. He could hear the old man’s voice speaking to him, the words strangely hushed and sad, giving life to what he saw.

The forests of the Anar lay before him and there was the Ravenshorn, a vast and sprawling mountain range that rose black and stark against a crimson sun. The Silver River wound through its peaks, a thin, bright ribbon of light against the dark rock. He followed its course upriver far into the mountains until at last he had traced it to its source, high within a single, towering peak. There stood a well, its waters spring-fed from deep within the earth, rising through the rock to spill over and begin the long journey west.

But there was something more—something beyond the well and its keep. Below the peak, lost in mist and darkness was a great pit hemmed all about by jagged rock walls. From pit to peak a long and winding stairway rose, a slender thread of stone spiraling upward. Mord Wraiths walked that causeway, dark and furtive in their purpose. One by one they came, at last gaining the peak. There they stood in a row and looked down upon the waters of the well. Then they advanced as one upon it and touched the waters with their hands. Instantly the water went foul, poisoned and turned from clearest crystal to an ugly black. It ran down out of the mountains, filtering west through the great forests of the Anar where the Dwarves dwelt, then on to the land of the King of the Silver River and to Jair . . .

Poisoned! The word screamed suddenly in the Valeman’s mind. The Silver River had been poisoned, and the land was dying . . .

The images were gone in a rush. Jair blinked. The old man was before him again, his weathered face smiling gently.

“From the bowels of the Maelmord the Mord Wraiths climbed the walk they call the Croagh to Heaven’s Well, the life-source of the Silver River,” he whispered. “Bit by bit, the poison has grown worse. Now the waters threaten to go bad altogether. When that happens, Jair Ohmsford, all of the life they serve and sustain, from the deep Anar west to the Rainbow Lake, will begin to die.”

“But can’t you stop it?” the Valeman demanded angrily, wincing with pain from the memory of what he had been shown. “Can’t you go to them and stop them before it is too late? Surely your power is greater than theirs!”

The King of the Silver River sighed. “Within my own land, I am the way and the life. But only there. Beyond, I am without strength. I do what I can to keep the waters clean within the Silver River country, but I can do nothing for the lands beyond. Nor do I have power enough to withstand forever the poison that seeps steadily down. Sooner or later, I will fail.”

There was a moment’s silence as the two faced each other in the flickering light of the campfire. Jair’s mind raced.

“What about Brin?” he exclaimed suddenly. “She and Allanon are going to the source of the Mord Wraiths’ power to destroy it! When they have done that, won’t the poisoning stop?”

The old man’s eyes found his. “I have seen your sister and the Druid in my dreams, child. They will fail. They are leaves in the wind. Both will be lost.”

Jair went cold. He faced the old man in stunned silence. Lost! Brin, gone forever . . .

“No,” he murmured harshly. “No, you’re wrong.”

“She can be saved,” the gentle voice reached out to him suddenly. “You can save her.”

“How?” Jair whispered.

“You must go to her.”

“But I don’t know where she is!”

“You must go to where you know she will be. I have chosen you to go in my place as savior to the land and its life. There are threads that bind us all, you see, but they are knotted. The thread you hold is the one that will pull the rest free.”

Jair didn’t know what the old man was saying and he didn’t care. He just wanted to help Brin. “Tell me what I have to do.”

The old man nodded. “You must begin by giving to me the Elfstones.”

The Elfstones! Again Jair had forgotten he had them. Their magic was the power he needed to break apart the Mord Wraith magic and any evil they might conjure up to stop him!

“Can you make them work for me?” the Valeman asked hurriedly, drawing them from his tunic. “Can you show me how to unlock the power?”

But the King shook his head. “I cannot. Their power does not belong to you. It belongs only to one to whom the magic has been freely given, and the magic was not given to you.”

Jair slumped back dejectedly. “Then what am I to do? What use are the Stones if . . .”

“Of much use, Jair,” the other interrupted gently. “But you must first give them to me. For good.”

Jair stared at him. For the first time since the old man had appeared, the Valeman hesitated to believe. He had salvaged the Elfstones from his home at the risk of his life. Time and again, he had protected them, all for the sole purpose of finding a way to use them to aid his family against the Mord Wraiths. Now he was being asked to give up the only real weapon he possessed. How could he do such a thing?

“Give them to me,” the soft voice repeated.

Jair hesitated a moment longer, wrestling with his indecision. Then slowly he passed them to the King of the Silver River.

“Well done,” the old man commended. “You show character and judgment worthy of your forebears. It was for these qualities that I chose you. And these qualities will sustain you.”

He slipped the Elfstones within his robes and brought forth a different pouch. “This pouch contains Silver Dust—life restorer to the waters of the Silver River. You must carry it to Heaven’s Well and scatter it into the poisoned waters. Do that, and the river will be clear again. Then you will find a way to give your sister back to herself.”

Give Brin back to herself? Jair shook his head slowly. What did the old man mean by that?

“She will lose herself.” The King of the Silver River again seemed able to read his thoughts. “Yours is the voice that will help her to find the pathway back.”

Jair still did not understand. He started to ask the questions that would clear away his confusion, but the old man shook his head slowly.

“Listen to what I say.” One thin arm reached out to him and the pouch with the Silver Dust was placed in his hands. “Now we are bound. Trust has been exchanged. So now it can be with magics. Your magic is useless to you, mine equally to me. I keep yours therefore and give you mine.”

Again he reached into the robes. “The Elfstones are three in number, one each for the mind and body and heart—magics that entwine and form the power of the Stones. Three magics, then, shall you be given. First, this.”

In his hand was a brilliant crystal on a silver chain. He passed it to Jair. “For the mind, a vision crystal. Sing to it, and it will show you the face of your sister, wherever she may be. Use it when you have need of knowing what she is about. And you
will
have need of knowing, for you must reach Heaven’s Well before she reaches the Maelmord.”

His hand lifted to Jair’s shoulder. “For the body, strength to see you through on your journey east and to stand against the dangers that will beset you. That strength you shall find in those who will travel with you, for you shall not make this journey alone. A touch of the magic, then, to each. It begins and ends here.” He pointed to the sleeping Garet Jax. “When your need is greatest, he shall always come. He shall be protector to you until you stand at last at Heaven’s Well.”

Once more he turned back to Jair. “And for the heart, child, the final magic—a wish that shall serve you best.
One time only
you may call upon the wishsong and it shall give you not illusion, but reality. It is the magic that will save your sister. Use it when you stand at Heaven’s Well.”

Jair shook his head slowly. “But how am I to use it? What am I to do?”

“I cannot tell you what you must decide for yourself,” the King of the Silver River replied. “When you have thrown the Silver Dust into the basin at Heaven’s Well and the waters are clear once more, throw the vision crystal after. You must find your answer there.”

He bent forward then, his frail hand lifting. “But be cautioned. You must reach the Well before your sister enters into the Maelmord. It is written that she shall do so, since the Druid’s faith in her magic is well placed. You must be there when that happens.”

“I will,” Jair whispered and clutched the vision crystal tightly.

The old man nodded. “I have placed much trust in you. The lands and the races depend now on you, and you must not fail them. But you have courage. You shall be true. Speak the words, Jair.”

“I shall be true,” the Valeman repeated.

Gingerly the King of the Silver River rose again, a ghost in the night. A great weariness stole suddenly over Jair, pulling him down into his travel cloak. Warmth and comfort seeped slowly through his body.

“You, most of all, are a part of me,” he heard the old man say, the words faint and distant. “Child of life, the magic makes you so. All things change, but the past carries forward and becomes what is to be. Thus it was with your great-grandfather and your father. Thus it is with you.”

He was fading, dissipating like smoke into the firelight. Jair peered after him, but his eyes were so clouded with sleep that he could not seem to make them focus.

“When you awake, all will be as it was save for this—I have come. Sleep now, child. Be at peace.”

Jair’s eyes closed obediently, and he slept.

W
hen Jair awoke, dawn had already broken. Sunshine spilled down out of a cloudless blue sky and warmed an earth still damp with morning dew. He stretched lazily and breathed in the smell of bread and meat cooking. Kneeling next to the campfire, his back turned to the Valeman, Garet Jax was preparing breakfast.

Jair glanced about. Slanter was nowhere to be seen.

All will be as it was . . .

Abruptly he remembered everything that had happened the night gone past and sat up with a start. The King of the Silver River—or had it all been just a dream? He looked down at his hands. There was no vision crystal. When he had fallen back asleep, the crystal—if there really were one—had been clutched in his hands. He felt about the ground for it, then through the travel cloak. Still no crystal. Then it
had
been a dream. He felt hurriedly for the pockets of his tunic. A bulge in one pocket revealed the presence of the Elfstones—or was it the pouch that contained the Silver Dust? Quickly his hands flew over the rest of his body.

“Looking for something?”

Jair’s head jerked up and he found Garet Jax staring at him. He shook his head hurriedly. “No, I was just . . . he stammered.

Then his eyes detected a gleam of metal against his chest where the tunic opened in front. He looked down, tucking his chin back. It was a silver chain.

“Do you want something to eat?” the other man asked.

Jair didn’t hear him. It hadn’t been a dream after all, he was thinking. It had been real. It had all happened just as he remembered it. One hand felt down the front of his tunic past the length of the silver chain, touching upon the orb of the crystal fastened at its end.

“Do you want something to eat or not?” Garet Jax repeated, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

“Yes, I . . . yes, I do,” Jair mumbled, rising and coming over to kneel beside the other. A plate was passed to him, filled with food from the kettle. Masking his excitement, he began to eat.

“Where’s Slanter?” he asked after a moment, recalling once more the absent Gnome.

Garet Jax shrugged. “He never came back. I scouted around for him before breakfast. His tracks led down to the river and then turned west.”

“West?” Jair stopped eating. “But that’s not the way to the Anar.”

The Weapons Master nodded. “I’m afraid your friend decided he had come far enough with us. That’s the trouble with Gnomes—they’re not very reliable.”

Jair felt a twinge of disappointment. Slanter must indeed have decided to go his own way. But why did he have to sneak off like that? Why couldn’t he at least have said something? Jair thought about it a moment longer, then forced himself to resume eating, pushing the disappointment from his mind. He had more immediate problems to concern himself with this morning.

He thought back over everything the King of the Silver River had told him last night. He had a mission to perform. He had to go into the deep Anar, into the Ravenshorn and the lair of the Mord Wraiths to the peak called Heaven’s Well. It would be a long, dangerous journey—even for a trained Hunter. Jair stared hard at the ground. He was going, of course. There was no question about that. But as game and determined as he might be, he had to admit nevertheless that he was far from being a trained Hunter—or a trained anything. He was going to need help with this. But where was he going to find it?

He glanced curiously at Garet Jax. This man shall be your protector, the King of the Silver River had promised. I give to him strength to withstand the dangers that will beset you on your journey. When you have need of him, he shall be there.

Jair frowned. Did Garet Jax know all this? It certainly didn’t appear that way. Obviously the old man hadn’t come to the Weapons Master last night as he had come to Jair. Otherwise the man would have said something by now. That meant it was up to Jair to explain it to him. But how was the Valeman supposed to convince the Weapons Master to come with him into the deep Anar? For that matter, how was he supposed to convince him that he hadn’t simply been dreaming?

He was still mulling the problem over when, to his complete astonishment, Slanter stalked out of the trees.

“Anything left in the kettle?” Slanter asked, scowling at them both.

Wordlessly, Garet Jax handed him a plate. The Gnome dropped the pack he was carrying, sat down next to the fire, and helped himself to a generous portion of the bread and meat. Jair stared at him. He looked haggard and irritable, as if he hadn’t slept all night.

The Gnome caught him staring. “What’s bothering you?” he snapped.

“Nothing.” Jair looked away quickly, then looked back again. “I was just wondering where you’d been.”

Slanter stayed bent over his plate. “I decided to sleep down by the river. Cooler there. Too hot by the fire.” Jair’s eyes strayed down to the discarded pack, and the Gnome’s head jerked up. “Took the pack so I could scout upriver a bit—just in case. Thought I’d be certain that nothing . . .”

He broke off. “I don’t have to account to you, boy! What’s the difference what I was doing? I’m here now, aren’t I? Let me be!”

He went back to his breakfast, attacking it with a vengeance. Jair glanced furtively at Garet Jax, but the Weapons Master seemed to take no notice. The Valeman turned again to Slanter. He was lying, of course; his tracks led downriver. Garet Jax had said so. Why had he decided to come back?

Unless . . .

Jair caught himself. The idea was so wild that he could barely conceive of it. But just perhaps the King of the Silver River had used his magic to bring the Gnome back again. He could have done that, Jair thought, and Slanter would never have been the wiser or realized what was being done to him. The old man could have seen that Jair would have need for the tracker—a Gnome who knew the whole of the Eastland.

Then suddenly it occurred to Jair that perhaps the King of the Silver River had brought Garet Jax to him as well—that the Weapons Master had come to his aid in the Black Oaks because the old man had wanted it so. Was that possible? Was that the reason that Garet Jax had freed him—all without realizing it?

Jair sat there in stunned silence, his food forgotten. That would explain the reluctance of both tracker and soldier-of-fortune to discuss the reasons for their actions. They didn’t understand it fully themselves. But if that were true, then Jair, too, might have been brought here by similar manipulation. How much of what had happened to him had been the work of the old man?

Garet Jax finished his breakfast and was kicking out the fire. Slanter, too, was on his feet, wordlessly pulling on the discarded pack. Jair stared at them in turn, wondering what he should do. He knew that he couldn’t just stay silent.

“Time to go,” Garet Jax called over, motioning him up. Slanter was already at the edge of the clearing.

“Wait . . . wait just a minute.” They turned to stare at him as he climbed slowly to his feet. “I’ve got something to tell you first.”

He told them everything. He had not intended it to happen that way, but telling one thing led to telling another by way of explanation; before he knew it the whole story was out. He told them of Allanon’s visit to the Vale and of his story of the Ildatch, of how Brin and Rone Leah had gone east with the Druid to gain entry into the Maelmord, and lastly of the appearance of the King of the Silver River and of the mission he had given to Jair.

When he had finished, there was a long silence. Garet Jax walked back to the fallen log and sat down, gray eyes intense.

“I am to be your protector?” he asked quietly.

Jair nodded. “He said you would be.”

“What if I were to decide otherwise?”

Jair shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I have heard some wild tales, but this is the wildest it has ever been my misfortune to suffer through!” Slanter exclaimed suddenly. “What are you up to with all this nonsense? What’s the purpose of it? You don’t think for a minute anyone sitting here believes a word of it, do you?”

“Believe what you want. It’s the truth,” Jair insisted, refusing to back away as the Gnome advanced on him.

“The truth! What do you know about the truth?” Slanter was incredulous. “You spoke with the King of the Silver River, did you? He gave you magic, did he? And now we’re supposed to go traipsing off into the deep Anar, are we? And not just into the Anar, but right into the teeth of the black walkers! Into the Maelmord! You’re mad, boy! That’s the only truth there is in any of this!”

Jair reached into his tunic and brought forth the pouch containing the Silver Dust. “This is the Dust he gave me, Slanter. And here.” He pulled the vision crystal on its silver chain free of his neck. “You see? I have the things he gave me, just as I said. Look for yourself.”

Slanter threw up his hands. “I don’t want to look! I don’t want anything to do with any of this! I don’t even know what I’m doing here!” He wheeled about suddenly. “But I’ll tell you this—I’m not going into the Anar, not with a thousand crystals or a whole mountain of Silver Dust! Find someone else who’s tired of living and leave me be!”

Garet Jax was back on his feet. He came over to Jair, took the pouch from the Valeman’s hand, slipped the drawstrings open, and peered inside. Then he looked up again at Jair.

“Looks like sand to me,” he said.

Jair glanced down hurriedly. Sure enough, the contents of the pouch looked exactly like sand. There was not a sparkle of silver to be seen in the supposed Silver Dust.

“Of course, the color might be a guise to protect against theft,” the Weapons Master mused thoughtfully, a distant look in his eyes.

Slanter was aghast. “You don’t really believe . . .”

Garet Jax cut him short. “I don’t believe much of anything, Gnome.” His eyes were hard again as they shifted to Jair. “Let’s put this magic to the test. Take out the vision crystal and sing to it.”

Jair hesitated. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how?” Slanter sneered. “Shades!”

Garet Jax didn’t move. “This seems like a good time to learn, doesn’t it?”

Jair flushed and looked down at the crystal. Neither of them believed a word he had told them. He couldn’t really blame them, though. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if it hadn’t happened to him. But it had, and it had been all too convincing not to be real.

He took a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

He began to sing softly to the crystal. He held it cupped within his hands like a fragile thing, the silver chain dangling down through his fingers. He sang without knowing what it was he should sing or how he could bring the crystal to life. Low and gentle, his voice called to it and asked that it show him Brin.

It responded almost instantly. Light flared within his palms, startling him so that he nearly dropped the crystal. A living thing, the light shimmered a brilliant white, expanding until it was the size of a child’s ball. Garet Jax bent close, his lean face intense. Slanter edged his way back from across the clearing.

Then abruptly Brin Ohmsford’s face appeared within the light, dark and beautiful, framed by mountains whose slopes were stark and towering against a dawn less friendly than their own.

“Brin!” Jair whispered.

He thought for a moment she might reply, so real was her face within the light. Yet her eyes were far distant in their vision, and her ears were closed to his voice. Then the vision faded; in his excitement, Jair had ceased to sing, and the crystal’s magic was spent. The light was gone in the same moment. Jair’s hands cupped the crystal once more.

“Where was she?” he asked hurriedly.

Garet Jax shook his head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps . . .” But he did not finish.

Jair turned to Slanter, but the Gnome was shaking his head as well. “I don’t know. It happened too fast. How did you do that, boy? It’s that song, isn’t it? It’s that magic you have.”

“And the magic of the King of the Silver River,” Jair added quickly. “Now do you believe me?”

Slanter shook his head glumly. “I’m not going into the Anar,” he muttered.

“I need you, Slanter.”

“You don’t need me. With magic like that, you don’t need anyone.” The Gnome turned away. “Just sing your way into the Maelmord like your sister.”

Jair forced down the anger building within him. He shoved the crystal and the pouch with the Silver Dust back into his tunic. “Then I’ll go alone,” he declared heatedly.

“No need for that quite yet.” Garet Jax swung his pack over his shoulder and started across the clearing once more. “First we’ll see you safely to Culhaven, the Gnome and me. Then you can tell the Dwarves this story of yours. The Druid and your sister should have passed that way by now—or word of their passing reached the Dwarves. In any case, let’s find out if anyone there understands anything of what you’ve been telling us.”

Jair stalked after him hurriedly. “What you’re saying is that you think I made this all up! Listen to me a minute. Why would I do that? What possible reason could I have? Go on, tell me!”

Garet Jax snatched up the Valeman’s cloak and blanket and shoved them at him as they went. “Don’t waste your time telling me what I think,” he replied calmly. “I’ll tell you what I think when I’m ready.”