The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

His beard was matted with leaves and twigs and dirt clots, and a rather large leaf stuck out of his hair like a feather, but he failed to notice, the full weight of his attention given over to Pen.

Pen shrugged. “We’re down and we’re safe, and we’re walking away,” he pointed out. “I think that ought to be good enough.”

“Well, it isn’t good enough!” Tagwen snapped.

“Well, why not?”

“Because we should be dead! This time we were lucky! What about next time? What about the time after that? I’m supposed to be able to depend on you! I said I would come with you in search of the Ard Rhys, but I didn’t say I would commit suicide!”

“I don’t see why you’re so angry!” Pen snapped, made angry himself by the other’s irascible behavior.

“Tagwen, is that you? As I live and breathe, it is! Well met!”

The shout came from one side, drawing their attention and putting an end to their arguing. The speaker was an Elf about the same age as Pen’s father, but with a more careworn face and with an even slighter build. A girl walked beside him, darker complected and more intense. Her eyes were riveted on Pen, and he had the feeling that she was making up her mind about him before she even knew who he was. Then she smiled when she saw him looking back at her, a disarming, warm grin that made him regret his hasty conclusion.

“Tagwen!” the speaker exclaimed again, reaching up to take the Dwarf’s hand. “What are you doing out here? And on an airship?”

“Desperate times require desperate acts,” Tagwen advised philosophically. He extended his own hand, and they shook. “I must say, flying with this boy is as desperate as I care to get.” He paused, glancing over at Pen ruefully. “Although I will admit, in all fairness, that he has saved my life several times on our journey.”

He reached out a hand and guided Pen to the forefront. “Penderrin Ohmsford, this is Ahren Elessedil. You might have heard your father speak of him.”

“Ah, young Pen!” the Elf greeted enthusiastically, shaking his hand, as well. “I haven’t seen you since you were too tiny to walk. You probably don’t remember me.”

“My father does indeed speak of you all the time,” Pen agreed. “My mother, as well.”

“They were good friends to me on our voyage west, Pen. If not for your father’s help, I would not have returned.” He gestured toward the girl. “This is my niece, Khyber, my brother’s daughter. She visits from Arborlon.”

“Hello again, Khyber.” Tagwen nodded to her. “You have grown up.”

“Not all that far,” she replied, her eyes staying on Pen. “That was a spectacular landing,” she said. “I didn’t think you were going to make it down.”

Tagwen went crimson again, the disapproving frown returning to his bluff features, so Pen jumped down from the decking with a mumbled thanks and quickly added, “Tagwen’s right. I was lucky.”

“I think it was more than that,” she said. “How long have you been flying airships?”

“Enough about airships!” the Dwarf huffed, noticing for the first time the debris in his beard and brushing it clean with furious strokes. “We have other things to talk about.” He lowered his voice. “Prince Ahren, can we go somewhere more private?”

Elves were gathered all around by then, come out of the trees to take a closer look at the airship and its occupants. Children were already scurrying around the pontoons and under the decking, making small excited noises amid squeals of delight. A few of the braver ones were even trying to climb aboard while their parents pulled them back.

“My cottage is just up the road, Tagwen,” Ahren Elessedil said. “We can clean you up and give you something to eat and drink. Khyber makes the best mango black tea in the Westland, a secret she won’t share even with me.” He gave the girl a wink. “Leave the skiff. She’ll be all right where she is. She’s an object of curiosity, but the villagers won’t harm her.”

“I don’t care whether they harm her or not!” Tagwen groused. “I’ve had more than enough of her for one day, thanks very much!”

They walked back through the village, Ahren Elessedil leading with Tagwen at his side, Pen following with Khyber. No one said very much, respecting the Dwarf’s wishes that they wait until they were in private to talk. Pen was thinking that even though Tagwen had insisted the Elven Prince-turned-Druid could help them in their search for the Ard Rhys, Ahren didn’t look up to it. If anything, he looked too soft and frail for the physical demands of such an endeavor. A strong wind might blow him away, the boy thought. But looks were misleading. Ahren Elessedil had survived the voyage of the Jerle Shannara when more than twenty others had not, and he wasn’t a Druid then. Tagwen had warned Pen not to judge Ahren too quickly, that what was visible on the surface was not necessarily representative of the man inside. Pen hoped he was right.

“Your father is Bek Ohmsford?” Khyber Elessedil asked him.