The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

When he lifted his gaze, he saw Khyber. She was standing on the other side of the ravine, arms extended, body braced. Her posture and the shocked look on her face revealed her part in what had happened. It was her Druid magic that had knocked him aside. She had used it there, as she had weeks earlier aboard the Skatelow in Anatcherae to sweep their hunter from the decks of the airship and into the waters of the Lazareen. Both times, she had saved his life.

He stared at her in disbelief and gratitude, then lifted his hand in a small wave. She straightened and waved back. They stayed where they were for a moment, looking at each other across the ravine, but from a greater distance, too, one measured by hardships endured and deadly encounters survived. Suddenly it made him feel close to her, enough so that he wanted to call out and tell her so. But the darkness was a curtain between them, and the night seemed poised to steal away his words, so he stayed silent.

She waved once more, pointed in the direction of the ruins, and started off into the darkness.

He watched her go, then gathered his strength, stood, and walked to the edge of the drop. He didn’t want to look down, but he did so anyway. He peered into the blackness, telling himself that it was all right, that he didn’t need to be afraid anymore, that the thing that had hunted him for so long was really dead. He stayed where he was for a long time, waiting for the bad memories and troubling emotions to settle, to lose their edge, to find a resting place inside.

When he had satisfied himself, he exhaled slowly and deliberately and turned away. He wondered if Cinnaminson was at peace with what had happened, as well, asleep in the arms of Mother Tanequil. He hoped she was.

He followed the rim of the ravine once more, stepping carefully along its border through the deepening night, the clouds drifting overhead in tattered dark strips, the stars a sprinkle of silver dust in the firmament. He had no idea what time it was. He scanned the horizon for the moon, hoping to use it to judge the hour, but he failed to find it. He couldn’t seem to remember if it was waxing or waning, full or new. He couldn’t remember when he had seen it last. He was tired, he knew. Too tired to think.

His thoughts scattered, and he found himself wondering if the aeriads had known that Khyber was across the ravine and ready to act to save him. He wondered if Cinnaminson was responsible, and if, being linked to the tanequil, she had asked the tree to aid him, too. Then it occurred to him that for the black-cloaked creature to reach the island to begin hunting him in the first place, the tanequil would have had to let it cross the bridge, thereby inviting it to its own doom.

He looked down at the darkwand. Having given up its limb in exchange for his fingers and Cinnaminson, had the tree become linked to him in a way he did not yet fully understand? It seemed clear that he was being kept safe at least until he was back across the bridge. It was no accident that he had been rescued that night. Khyber had not found him by chance. The aeriads had not led him to the edge of the ravine without knowing that Mother Tanequil was waiting.

How far did the protection of the tree reach?

He stopped and looked back into the darkness of the island forest. He wanted to know so much more than he did. He wanted to return to the tree to ask for the answers to his questions. But there was no point. His road lay ahead, on the other side of the ravine, back in the world of the Druids and Paranor.

And beyond, in the world of the Forbidding.

He began walking again, a steady march. The bridge was not far ahead. He saw a glow in the distance, fires lit within Stridegate’s ruins. Kermadec and his Trolls were waiting. Khyber would be back. He was anxious suddenly to see them. He was tired of being alone. He needed their companionship; he needed the reassurance their numbers would provide.

He pushed through the screen of saplings fronting the bridge supports and stopped short.

Three huge warships hung anchored above the ruins, their massive black hulls reflecting dully in the light of bonfires lit all through Stridegate’s flowered gardens. Shadows cast by the flames danced across through the carpeted beds and vine-covered walls, a swarm of shimmering black moths. Kermadec and his Rock Trolls sat weaponless and ringed by Gnome Hunters, their impassive faces lowered, their huge hands clenched about their knees as they faced away from their captors. Tagwen was crouched in their midst.

Directly across from Pen, on the far side of the bridge, stood a singular figure cloaked and hooded in black. At his appearance, the figure turned to face him.

Pen felt his heart sink and his euphoria fade.

The Druids had found them once more.





In memory of Christina Michelle George and Caleb Alexander Delp

and

in celebration of readers like them everywhere





ONE


“Pen Ohmsford!” The black-cloaked figure called out to him from across the chasm that separated the island of the tanequil from the rest of the world. “We have been waiting for you!”

A male Druid. He came forward a few steps, pulling back his hood to reveal the strong, dark features of his face. Pen had never seen him before.