The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

Seconds later, she was moving, sliding along the edge of the trees, making her way toward the closest of the airships. She must do what she could to help him, and to help him she must go where he was going. She must get aboard the airship, travel hidden to Paranor, then disembark in secret and find him before they discovered his intentions and put an end to them. Because they would, she knew. He was not clever or strong enough to fool them all. One of them would see through him.


Within the circle of light cast by the fire, the Druids had moved forward to intercept Pen. He did not resist them as Traunt Rowan took Pen’s arm and guided him toward the Athabasca. Rowan’s actions were almost paternal. He spoke softly to the boy, walking beside him in a way that suggested good intentions. He had not bothered yet with the staff, did not seem to care much about it at all. Pen was still limping, perhaps causing the Druid to think he was indeed injured and in need of support. The other one, his sly eyes fixed on them, trailed purposefully, and Khyber did not trust anything about him. If he had been the one to make the promise to release Tagwen and the Trolls, she would have acted at once, she told herself. There would have been no hesitation.

She reached the rope ladder that dangled from the airship she had chosen—not the one Pen was boarding, unfortunately—and went up it in a rush, not bothering to look back until she was aboard. There were Gnome Hunters forward against the railing, but their attentions were occupied with the events taking place below, and they took no notice of her. She slipped into the shadow of the mainmast, then over to the shelter of a rail sling set in place to port. From there, she could see Pen being led to the ladder of the other ship, the Druids shadowing him watchfully. She watched the Gnome Hunters drift through the light toward their ships like wraiths to their haunts. She saw Tagwen’s rough features, sad and desperate, peer upward as Pen climbed the ladder. She saw Kermadec’s strong hands knot together in a promise of certain action.

She could still stop it, she told herself. She could fling Druid Fire or elemental winds all through those Gnome Hunters and knock them sprawling. She could separate Pen from those Druids, burn away the ladder from below where he climbed, and give him a chance to flee. But it would not be settled then and there, and the consequences for those Trolls too slow to reach the shadows or the weapons of which they had been stripped would be ugly.

Remember. Pen is not trying to escape. He is trying to reach Paranor. He has made up his mind.

She pictured him anew as she had seen him from across the chasm not two hours earlier. She saw the monster Traunt Rowan had named Aphasia Wye. She saw Pen prepare to do what he could to stop it, even when there appeared there was nothing he could do. Facing what must have seemed to be certain death, he had not tried to flee or hide. He had stood there to meet it.

And would have, had she not been there to give him aid.

Perhaps he was relying on her now.

Perhaps he knew she would not abandon him; that because she had saved him once, his life was her responsibility. Old legends said that this was so. She had never believed it.

But somehow, at that moment, she did.


“Are you injured?” Traunt Rowan asked pleasantly, supporting Pen under his free arm, not looking at him as he talked, moving him steadily along toward the Athabasca.

Pen shrugged. “Nothing serious.”

“Aphasia Wye?”

“I hurt it trying to get away from him.”

“But no broken bones?”

Pen shook his head.

“You’re lucky. If you hadn’t gotten away from him, broken bones would have been the least of your problems.”

The second Druid, the one Tagwen had named Pyson Wence, moved up suddenly on Pen’s other side. “How did you get away from him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He risked a quick look at Traunt Rowan, seemingly the friendlier of the two. “Not until we’re away.”

Pyson Wence seized his arm, the blunt fingers squeezing so hard he flinched. “I don’t like your tone of voice, little man,” he hissed. “What you want in this matter is of no concern to us.”

Pen shrank from him. “I want to know my friends are safe before I tell you anything.”

“Let him go, Pyson,” the taller one whispered. “Unfriendly eyes are watching. We can wait.”

The one called Pyson let him go. Pen tore away from Traunt Rowan and rubbed his injured arm. He kept his head down and his eyes averted. He didn’t want to do anything to aggravate them until the airships were aloft and his friends free. He didn’t know what to expect then, but he would have a story in place to tell them that might buy him some time.

They reached the ladder, and as he made an attempt to climb it while still holding the darkwand, Pyson Wence snatched it away and cast it aside. “You won’t be needing any crutches from here on,” he said.

Pen froze, hands on the ladder, one foot on the first rung. He couldn’t leave the talisman behind.