The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

He showed them how to build the raft, using heavier logs for the hull, slender limbs for the cradle, and reeds for binding. It needed to be only big enough to support the four of them, so a platform measuring ten feet by ten feet was adequate. The materials were easy enough to find, even in the Slags, though not so easy to shape, mostly because they lacked the requisite tools and had to make do with long knives. On more than one occasion Pen had built similar rafts before and knew something about how to construct them so that they wouldn’t fall apart midjourney. Working in pairs, they gathered the logs and limbs for the platform and carried them to a flat piece of earth on which they could lay them out and lash them together.

They worked through the morning, and by midday they were finished. The raft was crude, but it was strong enough to support them and light enough to allow for portage. Most important, it floated. They had no supplies, nothing but the clothes they wore and the weapons they carried, so after crafting poles to push their vessel through the swamp, they set out.

It was slow going, even with the raft to carry them, the swamp a morass of weed-choked bays and logjammed channels that they were forced to backtrack through and portage around repeatedly. Even so, they made much better progress than they would have afoot. For just the second time since they had set out, Pen was able to make practical use of his magic, to intuit from the sounds and movements of the plants, birds, and animals around them the dangers that lay waiting. Calling out directions to the other three as they worked the poles, he concentrated on keeping them clear of submerged debris that might have damaged their craft and well away from the more dangerous creatures that lived in the Slags—some of them huge and aggressive. By staying close to the shoreline and out of the deeper water, they were able to avoid any confrontations, and Pen was able to tell himself that he was making at least partial amends for his part in contributing to the fix they were in.

By nightfall, they were exhausted and still deep in the Slags. Pen’s pocket compass had kept them on the right heading, of that much he was certain, but how much actual progress they had made was debatable. Since none of them knew exactly where they were, it was impossible to judge how far they still had to go. Nothing about the wetland had changed, the mist was thick and unbroken, the waterways extended off in all directions, and the undergrowth was identical to what they had left behind six hours earlier.

There was nothing to eat or drink, so after agreeing to split the watch into four shifts they went to sleep, hungry and thirsty and frustrated.

During the night, it rained. Pen, who was on watch at the time, used his cloak to catch enough drinking water that they were able to satisfy at least one need. After the rain stopped and the water was consumed, Khyber and Tagwen went back to sleep, but Ahren Elessedil chose to sit up with the boy.

“Are you worried about Cinnaminson?” Ahren asked when they were settled down together at the edge of the raft, their backs to the sleepers, their cloaks wrapped about them. It was surprisingly cold at night in the Slags.

The boy stared out into the dark without answering. Then he sighed. “I can’t do anything to help her. I can help us, but not her. She’s smart and she’s capable, but her father is too much for her. He sees her as a valuable possession, something he almost lost. I don’t know what he will do.”

The Druid folded himself deeper into his robes. “I don’t think he will do anything. I think he believes he made an example of us, so she won’t cross him again. He doesn’t think we will get out of here alive, Pen. Or if we do, that we will escape the Galaphile.”

Pen pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his chin between them. “Maybe he’s right.”

“Oh?”

“It’s just that we’re not getting anywhere.” The boy tightened his hands into fists and lowered his voice to a whisper. “We aren’t any closer to helping Aunt Grianne than we were when we started out. How long can she stay alive inside the Forbidding? How much time does she have?”

Ahren Elessedil shook his head. “A lot more than anyone else I can think of. She’s a survivor, Pen. She can endure more hardships than most. It doesn’t matter where she is or what she is up against, she will find a way to stay alive. Don’t lose heart. Remember who she is.”

The boy shook his head. “What if she has to go back to being who she was? What if that’s the only way she can survive? I listened to my parents talk about what she was like, when they thought I wasn’t listening. She shouldn’t have to be made to do those kinds of things again.”

The Druid gave him a thin smile. “I don’t think that’s what has you worried.”

The boy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you are worried about whether we will reach the Ard Rhys in time to be of help. I think you are worried about whether you will be able to do what is needed when the time comes. I think you are worried about failing.”

Pen was instantly furious, but he kept his tongue in check as he looked out again into the mist and gloom, thinking it through, weighing the Druid’s words. Slowly, he felt his anger soften.