The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

“You oversimplify,” Pyson Wence said. “Our dislike for the Ard Rhys goes well beyond the way she holds herself above us.”


“Indeed,” she agreed. “But inaccessibility and the appearance of isolation will doom whoever stands for the position of Ard Rhys, once Grianne is gone. I need all of you to support me if I am to succeed. You each represent a faction of the order—you, Pyson, of Gnomes; Terek Molt, of Dwarves; Traunt, of Southlanders; and Iridia, of Elves. Not all of each, by any means, but a sizeable number. You are among the strongest of your respective Races, and you can bring support to me as such. I cannot serve as Ard Rhys and achieve what we have decided upon without your help.”

“Why should you be Ard Rhys?” Terek Molt snapped suddenly, his sullen features tightening.

She kept her temper. Speaking out like this was his nature. “Because the order would not have you, Terek. They might have Traunt Rowan, but none of the rest of you. And Traunt is not interested.” She looked purposefully at him. “Are you?”

He shook his head, his lips pursing with disdain. “I have no need to be leader of the order—only to see it set upon the right path, one determined by someone other than her.”

Grianne Ohmsford, he meant, but would not speak her name. In his own quiet way, he hated her most. If Shadea had found a way that would allow him to kill her himself, he would have accepted it without question. She often wondered what he thought things would be like for him after Grianne was gone. What would there be left for him to do after having burned so much energy and devoted so much time to seeing her dispatched?

“Where have you found this potion?” Pyson Wence asked. “Liquid night? If not from this world, if instead from this place you refuse to reveal, how did you come by it?”

She shook her head. “No answers until I have your commitment, Pyson. It is sufficient to say that it will do what is needed.”

“Someone gave it to you?” he continued. “You have a secret ally? Another who serves our cause? Are you keeping other secrets, Shadea?”

She was, of course, but he would never find them out. “No more questions from you, no more answers from me,” she told him, told them all. “I want your oath, your Druid oath, your word and your bond. Everything that you hold sacred stands behind it, and we all bear witness to what you say. If I do this, if I rid you of the Ard Rhys, then will you support my bid to be the new leader of the order? Will you stand with me to the death to see finished what we seek to do?”

Iridia Eleri rose, cold eyes sweeping the room. “You have my oath. Let her burn a thousand years in her own magic’s fire!”

Terek Molt grunted approvingly. “She’s earned banishment a thousand times over, and I care nothing for where she gets banished to. Get it done, Shadea. Put this creature out of our lives!”

There was a long silence. Traunt Rowan was clearly thinking, head lowered, hands clasped. Pyson Wence, sitting beside him, glanced over, then looked at Shadea, frowning.

“If you can do as you say, then I have no quarrel with your effort.” His eyes shifted from face to face. “But if Shadea exaggerates in any way, if the power of the magic she proposes to use is less than what she thinks it is, then I want to be certain she does not exaggerate, as well, her certainty that nothing of this can come back to haunt us.”

“How could it do that, Pyson?” she spit at him. “Would it bear our names spelled out upon its liquid surface? Would it somehow speak them aloud? ”

He shrugged. “Would it, Shadea?”

“It is a potion supplemented by a spell. The potion does not originate in this world. The spell is one familiar to dozens and available to all who care to read and study on it. Nothing of either attaches to us. Stop equivocating! If you want out of this business, there is the door that brought you in. Pass back through, and you have your release.”

Not that he would ever live to reach it, she thought darkly, waiting on him. Not that he would take half a dozen steps before she burned him to cinders. It was too late for backing away. Too late for anything but going forward.

Maybe Pyson knew this, for he made no move to rise, showed no inclination to do anything but ponder her words. He was so settled in place, so loose and comfortable with his legs tucked under and his arms folded into his robes that it seemed to her, infuriatingly so, that he might be thinking of a nap.

“I’ll give you my oath, Shadea,” he said finally. “But—” He paused, cocking his head to one side, his sharp Gnome features thoughtful. “But I think my oath must be conditional on discovering where it is that you propose to send the Ard Rhys. If it isn’t sufficiently far away or secure, I intend to tell you so and back out.”