The First King of Shannara

Bremen, riding some yards back with the boy Allanon amid the king’s advisors and the commanders of the Elven army, was pondering the same question. But it was not the Elves’ fear that troubled him — it was the king’s. For even though Jerle Shannara would not admit to it, or even be cognizant of it for that matter, he was frightened. His fear was not obvious, even to him, but it was there nevertheless. It was a subtle, insidious stalker, lurking at the comers of his mind, awaiting its chance. Bremen had sensed it the day before, at the moment he had revealed the power of the sword — there, lodged just behind the king’s eyes, back in the depths of his confusion and uncertainty, back where it would fester and grow and in the end prove his undoing. Despite the old man’s efforts and the strength of his own conviction concerning the power of the talisman, the king did not believe. He wanted to, but he did not. He would try to find a way, of course, but there was no guarantee he would ever do so. It was something that Bremen had not considered in the course of all that had happened. Now he must do so. He must put the matter right.

He rode all that day watching the king, observing the silence in which he had wrapped himself, studying the hard set of his jaw and neck, unpersuaded by the smiles and the outward confidence displayed to others. The war taking place inside Jerle Shannara was unmistakable. He was struggling to accept what he had been told, but he was failing in his effort. He was brave and he was determined, so he would carry the sword into battle and face the Warlock Lord as he had been told he must. But when he did so his lack of belief would surface, his doubt would betray him, and he would die. The inevitability of it was appalling. Another, stronger voice than his own was needed. The old man found himself wishing that Tay Trefenwyd were still alive. Tay had been close enough to Jerle Shannara that he might have found a way to reach him, to convince him, to break down his misgivings and his doubts. Tay would have stood with the king against the Warlock Lord, just as Bremen intended to do, but it would have meant more with Tay. It might even have proved to be the difference.

But Tay was gone, so the voice and the strength that we;e needed must come from someone else.

There was Allanon to think about, too. From time to time he old man glanced at the boy. His young companion was still reticent, but he was no longer refusing to speak. Preia Starle was in part responsible for this. The boy was taken with her and listened to her advice. After a time, he began to open up. All of his family had been killed in the Northland raid, he had revealed. He had escaped because he had been elsewhere when the attack had commenced, and he had hidden as it swept by him. He had seen a great many atrocities committed, but he would not speak of the particulars. Bremen did not press him. It was enough that the boy had survived.

But there was still Galaphile’s vision to consider, and that was a matter less easily dismissed. What did it mean — himselt standing with the boy at the edge of the Hadeshorn in the presence of Galaphile’s shade, the bright, effervescent forms of the spirits of the dead swirling above the rolling waters, the air dark and filled with cries, and the boy’s strange eyes fixed on him, staring. Staring at what? The Druid could not decide. And what was the boy doing there in the first place — there, in the Valley of Shale, at the waters of the Hadeshorn, at a summoning of the dead, where no human was allowed, where only he dared walk?

The vision haunted him. Oddly, he was afraid for Allanon. He was protective of him. He found himself drawn to the boy in a way he could not quite explain. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact of their aloneness. Neither had a family, a people, or a hone Neither really belonged anywhere. In each there was a separateness that was undeniable, and it was as much a state of mind, it was a fact of life and just as unalterable. That Bremen was a Druid set him apart in ways he could not change, even if he wished. But the boy was just as distanced — in part by the insight he clearly possessed into other people’s thinking, a gift that few appreciated — and in part by an extraordinary perception that bordered on prescience. Those strange eyes mirrored his keen mind and intellect, but they hid his other gifts. He looked at you as if he could see right through you, and the look was not deceiving. Allanon s ability to reveal you was frightening.

What was Bremen to do with this boy? What was he to make ot him? It was a day for dilemmas and unanswered questions, and the old man bore the burden of their nagging weight in stoic silence as he rode east. The resolution of both, he supposed, would come soon enough.

When they arrived at the Valley of Rhenn, Jerle Shannara left the others and with Preia rode out to survey the defenses and to let the Elven Hunters know that he had arrived. He was greeted warmly everywhere, and he smiled and waved and told his men that everything was going well and that they would have a surprise or two for the Northlanders before long.