The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

“Stronger than she thinks,” the Gnome added, scowling at nothing, his eyes sweeping the room as if he was worried that someone might be listening.

“Let me repeat again that we didn’t send Aphasia Wye to hunt you,” Traunt Rowan continued. “We happen to agree with you. He was a monster. We’re glad he’s dead. But you need to understand that we think your aunt is a monster, too. A monster of another sort.” He paused. “Do you know what we did with her?”

Pen nodded. “You sent her into the Forbidding.”

He saw the surprise in both men’s eyes. He knew more than they had thought he knew. “How do you know that?”

“She told me so,” he said. “She came to me in a dream and told me she was being held prisoner by Druids. She asked me to help her. I didn’t know what to think, but then Tagwen came to Patch Run and told me she had disappeared, so I decided to do what she had asked.”

“Which was?”

“To travel to the ruins of Stridegate. To seek help that could only be found there.”

Pyson Wence scowled. “What sort of help? Why would she ask help of you and not her brother?”

Pen’s thoughts raced. “I don’t know. Or, at least, I didn’t know at first. I didn’t think it was real. But I was afraid to ignore it, too.”

“So you just decided to set out on your own?”

He took a deep breath. “Tagwen came to ask my father to help him find the Ard Rhys. Tagwen thought that my father could use his magic to discover where she had gone. But my father and mother were traveling, and I was the only one home. Then that other Druid appeared, the Dwarf, on the Galaphile, so we ran. He chased us all the way into the Black Oaks before we lost him. Then we flew my skiff to the Westland to ask Ahren Elessedil for help, and he got us a larger airship and took us north to Anatcherae. But the Galaphile found us again, and tracked us across the Lazareen and into the Slags, and there was a fight, and the Galaphile exploded and Ahren and the Dwarf were both killed.”

He paused, trying to gauge their reaction. Did they believe any of this? He was trying to stay as close to the truth as possible without giving anything vital away.

“Terek Molt was always impatient,” Pyson Wence growled, waving his hand dismissively. “This time it cost him more than he expected.”

“What did you do after that, Pen?” Traunt Rowan asked.

“We continued north out of the Slags. We still had the airship. We flew all the way to Taupo Rough. We met Kermadec, and he agreed to guide us to Stridegate. Then you appeared and we started running again.”

There was a long silence as the two men stared at him, weighing the truth in his story. Pen faced them squarely, meeting their eyes, willing them to believe.

“And all this time Aphasia Wye was hunting you?” the Southlander asked quietly.

Pen shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about him, at first. He appeared for the first time in Anatcherae, after we had gotten away from the Dwarf. He chased us along the docks to the ship. Then we didn’t see him until we were in the country beyond the Slags. He caught up to us again there. But we lost him. Then he appeared in the ruins. No one saw him that time but me. He crossed over to the island somehow, looking for me.”

He paused. “If you didn’t send him to find me, who did?”

Traunt Rowan pursed his lips. “Your aunt has many enemies, Pen. Not all of them are Druids.”

An answer that wasn’t an answer to the question, Pen thought.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Pyson Wence announced suddenly. “Aphasia Wye tracks you all the way to Stridegate, but twice you escape him along the way, something no one else has ever done. Then you confront him on the other side of a bridge that you say no one but you can cross, and you are able to kill him? You? A boy? Do you think we are fools?”

Pen shook his head quickly. “I didn’t kill him. The spirits did. The ones who live on the island. They are called aeriads. They tricked him, lured him to the edge of the chasm. In the dark, he was confused. He fell, and the fall killed him. It is a long way to the bottom of the chasm. There are lots of rocks and tangled roots.”

Pyson Wence was on him in a second, snatching him up by the front of his shirt and holding him pinned against the bulkhead. “Aphasia Wye could see better in the dark than most cats,” the Gnome spit. “He was a skilled hunter. Nothing would have confused him. Nothing would have distracted him once he had the scent. Certainly not the dark! You are lying to us, little man!”

The Gnome’s fist was jammed so tightly against Pen’s throat that the boy could barely breathe, let alone talk. “It was the magic!” he finally managed to gasp.