The First King of Shannara

The king stared wordlessly at the Druid, uncomprehending. A soft knock on the door distracted them both. The king blinked, then demanded irritably, “Who is it?”


The door opened, and Preia Starle stepped through. She seemed unruffled by his abrupt manner. She glanced at Bremen, then back to Jerle. “I would like to take the boy to the Home Guard barracks for food and rest. He is exhausted. He is not needed to keep further watch. I have seen to it that no one will disturb you while you talk.” She returned her gaze to Bremen. “Welcome to Arborlon.”

The old man rose and made a short bow. “My Lady Preia.”

She smiled in response. “Never that to you. Just Preia.” The smile faded. “You know what has happened, then?”

“That Jerle is king and you are queen? I discovered that before anything else on arriving in the city. Everyone speaks of it. You are both blessed, Preia. You will be strong for each other and for your people. I am pleased by the news.”

Her eyes shone. “You are very gracious. I hope that you can be strong for us as well in what lies ahead. Excuse me now. I will take the boy with me. Don’t be worried for him. We are already becoming fast friends.”

She went back through the door and closed it behind her.

Bremen looked at the king once more. “You are fortunate to have her,” he said quietly. “I expect you know that.”

Jerle Shannara was thinking of another time, not so far in the past, when he had been confronted with the possibility of losing Preia. It haunted him still, the thought that his assumptions about her had been so wrong. Tay and Preia, the two people closest to him in all the world: he had misread them both, had failed to know them as well as he should, and had been taught a lesson in the process that he would never forget.

The room was silent again, twilight filling the comers with shadows, the rain a soft patter without. The king rose and lit anew the lamps that the wind had blown -out. The gloom receded. The old man watched him without speaking, waiting him out.

The king sat down again, uneasy still. His brow furrowed as he met Bremen’s sharp gaze. “I was just thinking how important it is not to take anything for granted. I should have kept that in mind where the Black Elfstone was concerned. But losing Tay was impossible to bear without thinking he had died for good cause. I assumed wrongly that it was to assure the Warlock Lord’s destruction. It is difficult to accept that he died for anything else.”

“It is difficult to accept that he died at all,” Bremen said quietly.

“But the reason for his death is nevertheless tied to the destruction of the Warlock Lord and no less valid or important because the Elfstone has a different use than you believed. Tay would understand that, if he were here. As king, you must do the same.”

Jerle Shannara’s smile was sardonic and filled with pain. “I am new to this still, this business of being king. It is not something I sought.”

“That is not a bad thing,” the Druid replied, shrugging. “Ambition is not a character trait that will help you in your confrontation with the Warlock Lord.”

“What will help me, then? Tell me of the sword, Bremen.” The king’s impatience broke past his anger and discouragement. “The Northland army marches against us. They will reach the Rhenn in two days’ time. We must hold them there or we are lost. But if we are to have any real chance, I must have a weapon that the Warlock Lord cannot stand against. You say you have brought one. Tell me its secret. Tell me what it can do.”

He waited then, flushed and anxious, staring at the Druid.

Bremen did not move, holding his gaze, saying nothing. Then he rose, walked to the map table, picked up the canvas-wrapped bundle, and handed it to the king. “This belongs now to you. Open it.”

Jerle Shannara did so, untying the cords that bound the canvas, stripping the wrapping carefully away. When he was finished, he held in his hands a sword and sheath. The sword was of unusual length and size, but light and perfectly formed. The hilt was engraved at the guard with the image of a hand holding forth a burning torch. The king slid free the sword from its sheath, marveling at the smooth, flawless surface of the blade, at the feel of it in his hand — as if it belonged there, as if it really was meant for him. He studied it for a moment in silence. The flame from the torch climbed toward the tip of the blade, and in the dimness of the study he could almost imagine that it flickered with a light of its own. He held the sword out before him, testing its heft and balance. The metal glittered in the lamplight, alive and seeking.

The king looked at Bremen and nodded slowly. “This is a wondrous blade,” he said softly.

‘There is more to it than what you perceive, Jerle Shannara — and less,“ replied the old man quickly. ”So listen carefully to what I tell you. This information is for you alone. Only Preia is to know otherwise,’ and only if you deem it essential. Much could depend on this. I must have your word.”

The king hesitated, glanced at the sword, and then nodded.