THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA : Morgawr (BOOK THREE)

Still, it was not Ahren’s problem. “I have them. I will give them to you as soon as I am certain we are clear on the terms of the agreement Father and Walker reached.”


Anger flooded his brother’s face. “It is not your place to remind me of my obligations! I know what my father promised! If the Druid has fulfilled his part of the bargain—if you have the Elfstones and a share of the Elven magic to give to me—then it shall be done as Father wished!”

His brother made no attempt to hide the fact that he thought everything was intended just for him rather than for the Elven people. Kylen was a brave man and a strong fighter, but too ambitious for his own good and not much of a politician. He would be causing problems with the Elven High Council by now. He would have already angered certain segments of his people.

“The Elfstones will be yours by the time I leave,” Ahren said. “The magic Walker sought to find requires translation and interpretation in order to comprehend its origins and worth. Those Elves who go to become Druids in the forming of the new council can help with that work. Two dozen would be an adequate number to start.”

“A dozen will do,” his brother said. “You may choose them yourself.”

Ahren shook his head. “Two dozen are necessary.”

“You test my patience, Ahren.” Kylen glared at him, then nodded. “Very well, they are yours.”

“A full share of the money promised to each of the men and women who went on this expedition must be paid out to the survivors or to the families of the dead.”

His brother nodded grudgingly. He was looking at Ahren with something that approached respect, clearly impressed, if not pleased, by his younger brother’s poise and determination. “Anything else? You’ll want to keep the airship, I expect.”

Ahren didn’t bother answering. Instead, he reached into his pocket, withdrew the pouch containing the Elfstones, and handed it to his brother. Kylen took only a moment to release the drawstrings and dump the Stones into his hand. He stared down wordlessly into their depthless blue facets, an unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

“Do you need me to tell you how to make the magic work?” Ahren asked cautiously.

His brother looked over at him. “I know more about them than you think, little brother. I made a point of finding out.”

Ahren nodded, not quite understanding, not sure if he wanted to. “I’ll be going, then,” he said. “After I gather supplies and talk with those I think might come to Paranor.” He waited for Kylen to respond, and when he didn’t, said, “Good-bye, Kylen.”

Kylen was already moving toward the door, the Elfstones clutched in his hand. He stopped as he opened it, and looked back. “Take whatever you need, little brother. Go wherever you want. But, Ahren?” A broad smile wreathed his handsome face. “Don’t ever come back.”

He went out through the door and closed it softly behind him.





It was dawn off the coast of the Blue Divide, and Hunter Predd was flying on patrol aboard Obsidian. He had slept almost continuously for several days after his return, but because he was restless by nature, he required no more time than that to recover from the hardships of his journey and so was back in the air. He never felt at home anywhere else, even in the Wing Hove; he was always anxious to be airborne, always impatient to be flying.

The day was bright and clear, and he breathed deeply of the sea air, the taste and smell familiar and welcome. The voyage of the Jerle Shannara seemed a long time ago, and his memories of its places and people were beginning to fade. Hunter Predd did not like living in the past, and thus discarded it pretty much out of hand. It was the present that mattered, the here and now of his life as a Wing Rider, of his time in the air. He supposed that was in the nature of his occupation. If you let your mind wander, you couldn’t do what was needed.

He searched the skyline briefly for airships, thinking to spot one somewhere in the distance along the coast, perhaps even one captained by Redden Alt Mer. He thought that of all those he had sailed with, the Rover was the most remarkable. Lacking magic or knowledge or even special skills, he was the most resilient, the one nothing seemed to touch. The man with the luck. Hunter Predd could still see him flying, miraculously unscathed, out of the smoky wreckage of the Morgawr’s fleet aboard his single wing. He thought that when nothing else could save you in this world, luck would always do.

Seagulls flew across his path, white-winged darts against the blue of the water. Obsidian gave a warning cry, then wheeled left. He had seen something floating in the water, something his rider had missed. Hunter Predd’s attention snapped back to the job at hand. He saw it now, bobbing in the surf, a splash of bright color.

Perhaps it was a piece of clothing.

Perhaps it was a body.

He felt a catch in his throat, remembering a time that suddenly did not seem so long ago after all.

Using his hands and knees to guide the Roc, he flew down for a closer look.





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