The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

“You’re right,” he admitted finally. “I don’t think I can save her. I don’t see how I can manage it. I’m not strong or talented enough. I don’t have magic like my father. I’m nothing special. I’m just ordinary.” He looked at the Druid. “What am I going to do if that isn’t enough?”


Ahren Elessedil pursed his lips. “I was your age when I sailed on the Jerle Shannara. Just a boy. My brother sent me because he was secretly hoping I wouldn’t come back. Ostensibly, I was sent to regain possession of the Elfstones, but mostly I was sent with the expectation that I would be killed. But I wasn’t, and when I found the Elfstones, I was able to use them. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I ran from my first battle, so frightened I barely knew what I was doing. I hid until someone found me, someone who was able to tell me what I am telling you—that you will do your best and your best might surprise you.”

“But you just said you had the Elfstones to rely on. I don’t.”

“But you do have magic. Don’t underrate it. You don’t know how important it might turn out to be. But that isn’t what will make the difference when it matters. It is the strength of your heart. It is your determination.”

He leaned forward. “Remember this, Penderrin. You are the one who was chosen to save the Ard Rhys. That was not a mistake. The King of the Silver River sees the future better than anyone, better even than the shades of the Druids. He would not have come to you if you were not the right person to undertake this quest.”

Pen searched Ahren’s eyes uncertainly. “I wish I could believe that.”

“I wished the same thing twenty years ago. But you have to take it on faith. You have to believe that it will happen. You have to make it come true. No one can do it for you.”

Pen nodded. Words of wisdom, well meant, but he didn’t find them helpful. All he could think about was how ill equipped he was to rescue anyone from a place like the Forbidding.

“I still think it would have been better to send you,” he said quietly. “I still don’t understand why the King of the Silver River decided on me.”

“Because he knows more about you than you know yourself,” the Druid answered. He rose and stretched. “The watch is mine now. Go to sleep. You need to rest, to be ready to help us again tomorrow. We aren’t out of danger yet. We are depending on you.”

Pen moved away without comment, sliding to one side, joining Khyber and Tagwen at the other end of the raft, where both were sleeping fitfully. He lay down and pulled his cloak closer, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He didn’t sleep right away, but stared out into the misty gloom, the swirling of the haze hypnotic and suggestive of other things. His thoughts drifted to the events that had brought him to that place and time and then to Ahren Elessedil’s encouraging words. That he should believe so strongly in Pen was surprising, especially after how badly the boy had handled the matter of Cinnaminson and Gar Hatch. But Pen could tell when someone was lying to him, and he did not sense falsehood in the other’s words. The Druid saw him as the rescuer he had been charged with being. Pen would find a way, he believed, even if the boy did not yet know what that way was.

Pen breathed deeply, feeling a calmness settle through him. Weariness played a part in that, but there was peace, as well.

If my father was here, he would have spoken those same words to me, he thought.

There was comfort in knowing that. He closed his eyes and slept.


They woke to a dawn shrouded in mist and gloom, their bodies aching with the cold and damp. Once again, there was nothing to eat or drink, so they put their hunger and thirst aside and set out. As they poled through the murky waters, stands of swamp grass clutched at them with anxious tendrils. Everywhere, shadows stretched across the water and through the trees, snakes they didn’t want to wake. No one spoke. Chilled by the swamp’s gray emptiness, they retreated inside themselves. Their determination kept them going. Somewhere up ahead was an end to the morass, and there was only one way to reach it.

At midday they were confronted by a huge stretch of open water surrounded by vine-draped trees and clogged by heavy swamp grass. Islands dotted the lake, grassy hummocks littered with rotting logs. Overhead, mist swirled like thick soup in a kettle, sunlight weakened by its oily mix, a hazy wash that spilled gossamer-pale through the heavy branches of the trees.

They stopped poling and stared out across the marshy, ragged expanse. The islands jutted from the water like reptile eyes. Pen looked at Ahren Elessedil and shook his head. He didn’t like the feel of the lake and did not care to try to cross it. Ripples at its center hinted at the presence of things best avoided.