The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

In any case, by the third day everyone was growing impatient. Pen and his companions were still stuck inside at the inn, and Gar Hatch had given Ahren no indication as to when they were going to set sail again. The rains had subsided, but a rise in the temperature had caused a deep fog bank to settle over the Lazareen and the surrounding lakeshore, the port of Anatcherae included. Visibility continued to hamper travel, and the dockside was quiet.

By midafternoon, with their lunch finished and the prospect of another day in port looming ever closer, Ahren announced that he was going down to the waterfront to tell Hatch that whether he liked it or not they would set sail at dawn. The Rover’s reputation was that he could sail in any weather and under any conditions. It was time to prove it. The Druid was clearly displeased, his patience with Gar Hatch exhausted. Pen exchanged a knowing look with Khyber when Ahren told them to pack and be ready to leave when he returned. The boy did not think that Hatch would be given a chance to offer any more excuses. He wished, however, that he had been able to tell Ahren Elessedil what Cinnaminson had told him—that her father knew who they were, knew of their purpose, and might be making plans of his own. He could not say anything, however, without giving away the fact that he had disobeyed the Druid. He rationalized his decision to keep quiet by telling himself that Ahren already suspected Hatch of knowing the truth, which was almost the same as knowing it for a fact, so that the Druid was prepared for it anyway.

Still, it unsettled him to be keeping secrets from his friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Druid and his niece and the Dwarf; he did. It was just that once he didn’t tell them, later, he didn’t know how, and it became easier not to do so at all. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t tell them, when it became necessary. If it ever did. Maybe it never would.

So he kept what he knew about Gar Hatch to himself as Ahren Elessedil went out the door. He plopped down in a wooden chair by the window, alone for the moment, and stared out into the mist. He allowed himself to think briefly of Cinnaminson, then turned his attention for the first time in several days to the more important matter of reaching the tanequil. He was beginning to wonder not so much if he could do so, which he firmly believed he could, but if he could do so in time. His aunt was trapped inside the Forbidding, and he knew enough about what was locked away there to realize that even an Ard Rhys might have trouble staying alive. He knew she was powerful, that her magic had made her one of the most feared humans in the Four Lands. He knew, as well, that she was a survivor, that her entire life had been spent finding ways to stay alive when others either wished her dead or were actively looking for ways to make it happen. She would not be killed easily, even by the monsters that dwelled within the Forbidding.

But she was alone and friendless there and that would put her at a decided disadvantage. Sooner or later, that disadvantage would begin to tell. How many days had she been trapped in there already? At least two weeks, and that was just the beginning of the time that it would take for him to reach her. Under the best of conditions, he thought, he would need another week or two to find the tanequil. Then he had to persuade it to fashion the darkwand. Then he had to return to Paranor, get inside the Keep, and use the wand to cross over into the Forbidding.

How much time would all that require? Two months? More? Just listing the steps necessary for the rescue demonstrated how impossible the task was. She would be dead before he could reach her. Perhaps she was already dead.

He stopped himself angrily. What was he thinking? The King of the Silver River would not bother sending him if he had no chance of success; there would be no point in making the journey. No, his aunt was alive and she would stay alive until he reached her. She would die only if he talked himself out of going on.

If he persuaded himself he should quit.

As he was trying to do now.

He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He would not think like that again, he promised himself. He would do what he knew he should and continue on, right up until the moment that it became impossible for him to do so. That was what was expected of him; it was what he expected of himself.

Then Khyber appeared, sat down without a word, pulled out her folding game board, and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him. He smiled in spite of himself.

“I’ll give it a try,” he said.