The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

Pen did not know who she was. He did not know her name. What he did know was that he would never forget her.

“Are you our passengers?” she asked them, looking off into a space they did not quite occupy.

Pen nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes, two of them, anyway. I’m Pen and this is Khyber.” He had presence of mind enough, though just barely, to remember to use only first names.

“I’m Cinnaminson,” she told them. “I’m Gar Hatch’s daughter.”

She stretched out her hand and waited for them to take it, which they did, one after the other. Her smile was winsome and a bit fragile, Pen thought, hesitant and protective at the same time, which seemed right for her condition. But there was strength to her, too. She was not afraid to come up against what she couldn’t see.

“Traveling to the Charnals,” she said, making it a statement of fact. “I like that part of the world. I like the feel of the mountain air, the smell and taste of it. Snowmelt and evergreens and ice.”

“Do you always come on these trips?” Khyber asked, looking doubtful about the whole business.

“Oh, yes. Ever since I was eight years old. I always go. Papa wouldn’t fly anywhere without me.” She laughed softly, milky eyes squinting with amusement. “I am an old salt, he tells me, a child of the air and sea.”

Khyber arched a questioning eyebrow at Pen. “I am surprised he would allow you aboard at so young an age when you could not see to help yourself. It seems dangerous.”

“I see well enough,” the girl replied. “Not so much with my eyes as with my other senses. Besides, I know every inch of the Skatelow. I am not in any real danger.”

She sat down beside them, moving effortlessly to find a place between them, her gray and green robes settling about her like sea foam. “You don’t fly, do you, Khyber?”

“No. But Pen does. He was born to airships.”

Her gaze shifted, not quite finding him. “Don’t tell my father. He doesn’t like it when other flyers come aboard. He’s very jealous of what’s his.”

Pen thought, without having any better reason to do so than the way she said it, that she was including herself in that assessment. “Too late,” he told her. “He found out from my uncle and already made a point of letting me know how lacking I am in real skills.”

Her smile dropped. “I’m sorry, Pen. I would have warned you if I had known. Papa can be very hard.”

“Is he hard on you?”

The smile returned, less certain. “I am his most important crew member,” she said, not quite answering the question. She hesitated. “He wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but I will anyway. I am his navigator.”

Pen and Khyber exchanged a quick glance. “How do you manage that?” the Elven girl asked. “I didn’t think you could navigate if you couldn’t see.”

The milky eyes shifted slightly toward the sound of Khyber’s voice. “I don’t see with my eyes. I see with my other senses.” She bit her lip. “I can do things to help Papa that don’t require sight.” Again, she paused. “You mustn’t tell Papa I told you any of this. He wouldn’t like it.”

“Why wouldn’t he like it?” Pen asked.

“Papa worries about outsiders, people other than Rovers. He doesn’t trust them.”

Nor do we trust him, Pen thought. Not a good situation.

“I still don’t understand this navigation business,” Khyber pressed, her brow furrowing. “Tell us something more about how you help your father.”

“Cinnaminson!”

All three turned in the direction of the voice. Gar Hatch had turned around in the pilot box and caught sight of them. He looked furious. “Come help your Papa, little girl,” he ordered brusquely. “You’ve sailor work to do.”

She stood up at once. “Coming, Papa.” She glanced down quickly. “Say nothing!” she whispered.

She left without another word, walking straight to the pilot box and climbing in. Pen watched to see what would happen and wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when nothing did. Gar Hatch put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, patted it briefly, and turned back to steering the vessel. Cinnaminson remained standing beside him.

“What do you make of that?” he asked Khyber.

“A bad business that we should stay out of,” she answered. She regarded him thoughtfully. “I think we ought to cut your hair. That long red mane is too recognizable. Maybe we should dye it, too.”

She put down her writing tools and went off to find her scissors.