The First King of Shannara

“Listen to me, Jerle,” the other soothed, tightening his grip so that the arm that held the sword could not fall away, so that the sword was a silver thread that bound them, bright and shining.

“What is required of you will not be easy — I have told you that. But it is possible. You must turn the power of the sword upon yourself. You must let the magic fill you and reveal to you the truths in your own life. You must let them be laid bare, exposed for what they are, and confronted. They will be harsh, some of them. They will be difficult to face. We are creatures who constantly reinvent ourselves and our lives in order to survive the mistakes we have made and the failings we have exposed. In many ways, it is this that makes us vulnerable to a creature like Brona. But if you withstand the self-scrutiny that the sword demands, you will emerge from the experience stronger than your adversary and you will destroy him. Because, Elven King, he cannot permit such scrutiny of his life, for beyond the lies and half truths and deceptions he is nothing!”

There was a long silence as the two men faced each other, eyes locked, a measure of each being taken by the other. “Truth,” said the Elven King finally, his voice so soft the Druid could barely hear him. “Such a frail weapon.”

“No,” said the other at once. “Truth is never frail. It is the most powerful weapon of all.”

“Is it? I am a warrior, a fighter. Weapons are all I know — weapons of iron wielded by men of strength. You are saying that none of this will serve me, that I must abandon all of it. You are saying that I must become something I have never been.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

The old man released him, and the sword dropped away between them. The dried parchment hands settled on the king’s powerful shoulders, gripping them. There was unexpected strength in that aging body. There was fierce determination in those eyes.

“You must remember who you are,” the Druid whispered “You must remember how you got to be that way. You have never failed to confront a challenge. You have never shunned a responsibility. You have never been afraid. You have survived whd; would have killed almost anyone else. That is your history. That is who and what you are.”

The hands tightened. “You have great courage, Jerle. You have a brave heart. But you give too much importance to Tay Trefenwyd’s death and not enough to your own life. No, do not be angry. This is not a criticism of Tay, not a belittling of what his loss means to us. It is a comment on the need for you to remember that it is always the living who matter. Always. Give your life the due it deserves, Elven King. Be strong in the ways you must. Do not dismiss your chances against the Warlock Lord simply because the weapon with which you are given to do battle is unfamiliar. It is unfamiliar to him as well. He knows of man-made blades. He will suspect yours to be just another. Surprise him. Give him a taste of another kind of metal.”

Jerle Shannara moved away then, shaking his head, looking down at the sword doubtfully. “I know better than to disbelieve what I find difficult to accept,” he said, stopping before the window and looking out into the rain. “But this is hard. This asks so much.” His mouth tightened in a hard line. “Why was I chosen for this? It doesn’t make sense to me. So many others would be better suited to a weapon of this sort. I understand iron and brute strength. This... this clever artifice is too obscure for me. Truth as a weapon makes sense only in terms of councils or politics. It seems useless on a battlefield.”

He turned toward the Druid. “I would face the Warlock Lord without hesitation if I could wield this sword as a simple blade forged of metal and a master smith’s skill. I could accept it as a weapon without question if I could bear it just as it appears.”

Anguish pulsed in his blue eyes. “But this? I am wrong for this, Bremen.”

The Druid nodded slowly, not in agreement so much as in understanding. “But you are all we have, Jerle. We cannot know why you were selected. It may be because you were fated to become King of the Elves. It may be for reasons beyond what we can see. The dead know things we cannot. Perhaps they could tell us, but they have not chosen to do so. We must accept this and go on. You are to be the bearer of the sword. You are to carry it into battle. It is predestined. There is no other choice. You must do the best you can.”

His voice trailed off in a whisper. Outside, the rain continued to fall in a soft, steady patter, cloaking the forestland in a silver shimmer. Twilight had fallen, and the day had gone west with the sun. Arborlon was silent and damp within her forest shelter, a city slowly pulling on her nighttime wrappings. It was silent in the study, silent in the summerhouse, and there might have been no one alive in all the world but the two men who stood facing each other in the candlelit gloom.