The First King of Shannara

“Brona hunts you already. He probably knows you have been to Paranor. He will expect you to return.”


The old man’s face turned slightly toward his younger companion, creased and browned by weather and sun, etched by a lifetime of struggle and disappointment. “I know all this, Kinson. And you know that I know, so why are we discussing it?”

“So that you will be reminded,” the Borderman declared firmly.

“So that you will be doubly cautious. Visions are fine, but they are tricky as well. I don’t trust them. You shouldn’t either. Not entirely.”

“You refer to the vision of Paranor, I presume?”

Kinson nodded. “The Keep fallen and the Druids destroyed. All clear enough. But the sensation of something waiting, something dangerous — that’s the tricky part of this matter. If it’s accurate, it won’t come in any form you expect.”

Bremen shrugged. “No, I don’t suppose it will. But it doesn’t matter. I have to make certain that Paranor is truly lost — no matter the strength of my own suspicions — and I have to recover the Eilt Druin. The medallion is to be an integral part of the talisman needed to destroy the Warlock Lord. The vision was clear enough on that. A sword, Kinson, that I must shape, that I must forge, that I must imbue with magic that Brona himself cannot withstand. The Eilt Druin is the only part of that process that I have been shown; the medallion’s image was clearly visible on the sword’s handle. It is a place to begin. I must recover the medallion and determine what is needed from there.”

Kinson studied him a moment in silence. “You have already constructed a plan for this, haven’t you?”

“The beginnings of one.” The old man smiled. “You know me too well, my friend.”

“I know you well enough to anticipate you now and then.”

Kinson sighed and looked out across the river. “Not that it helps me in my efforts to persuade you to take better care of yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Wouldn’t you? Kinson thought wearily. But he did not challenge the statement, hoping that perhaps it was at least partly true, that the old man did listen to him about a few things, particularly those that argued for caution. It was funny that Bremen, now in the twilight of his life, was so much more reckless than the younger man. Kinson had spent a lifetime on the border learning that a single misstep was the difference between life and death, that knowing when to act and when to wait kept you safe and whole.

He supposed that Bremen appreciated the distinction, but he didn’t always act as if he did. Bremen was far more apt to challenge fate than Kinson. The magic was the difference, he supposed. He was swifter and stronger than the old man, and his instincts were surer, but Bremen had the magic to sustain him, and the magic had never failed. It gave Kinson some small measure of reassurance that his friend was cloaked in an extra layer of protection. But he wished the measure could be larger.

He unfolded his long legs and stretched them out in front of him, leaning back, bracing himself with his arms. “What happened back there with Mareth?” he asked suddenly. “At the Hadeshorn, when you collapsed and she reached you first?”

“Interesting young woman, Mareth.” The old man’s voice was suddenly soft. He turned to face Kinson once more, a faraway look in his eyes. “Remember how she claimed to have magic? Well, the claim is a valid one. But perhaps it is not the sort of magic I envisioned. I’m still not sure. I do know something of it, though. She is an empath, Kinson. Her healing art is buttressed by this power. She can take another’s pain into herself and lessen it. She can absorb another’s injury and speed its healing. She did that with me at the Hadeshorn. The shock of seeing the visions and being touched by the shades of the dead rendered me unconscious. But she lifted me — I could feel her hands — and brought me awake, strong again, healed.“ He blinked. ”It was very clear. Did you happen to see what effect it had on her?”

Kinson pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She seemed to lose strength momentarily, but it didn’t last long. But her eyes. On the bluff, when you disappeared in the storm while talking with the shade of Galaphile, she said she could see you when the rest of us could not. Her eyes were white.”

“Her magic seems quite complex, doesn’t it?”

“Empathic, you said. But not in any small way.”

“No. There is nothing small about Mareth’s magic. It is very powerful. Probably she was born with it and has worked to develop her skills over the years. Certainly with the Stors.” He paused. “I wonder if Athabasca realizes she possesses this skill. I wonder if any of them realize it.”