The Scions of Shannara

Coll sighed. “At this point, I’d just settle for an end to this confounded rain.” He glanced out into the dark. “I could almost believe in Shadowen on a night like this, I think.”


Par decided suddenly to tell Coll about the dreams. He wanted to talk about them, and there no longer seemed to be any reason not to. He debated only a moment, then said, “I haven’t said anything before, but I’ve been having these dreams, the same dream actually, over and over.” Quickly he described it, focusing on his confusion about the dark-robed figure who spoke to him. “I don’t see him clearly enough to be certain who he is,” he explained carefully. “But he might be Allanon.”

Coll shrugged. “He might be anybody. It’s a dream, Par. Dreams are always murky.”

“But I’ve had this same dream a dozen, maybe two dozen times. I thought at first it was just the magic working on me, but . . .” He stopped, biting his lip. “What if . . .?” He stopped again.

“What if what?”

“What if it isn’t just the magic? What if it’s an attempt by Allanon—or someone—to send me a message of some sort?”

“A message to do what? To go traipsing off to the Hadeshorn or somewhere equally dangerous?” Coll shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. And I certainly wouldn’t consider going.” He frowned. “You aren’t, are you? Considering going?”

“No,” Par answered at once. Not until I think about it, at least, he amended silently, surprised at the admission.

“That’s a relief. We have enough problems as it is without going off in search of dead Druids.” Coll obviously considered the matter settled.

Par didn’t reply, choosing instead to poke at the fire with a stray stick, nudging the embers this way and that. He was indeed thinking about going, he realized. He hadn’t considered it seriously before, but all of a sudden he had a need to know what the dreams meant. It didn’t matter if they came from Allanon or not. Some small voice inside him, some tiny bit of recognition, hinted that finding the source of the dreams might allow him to discover something about himself and his use of the magic. It bothered him that he was thinking like this, that he was suddenly contemplating doing exactly what he had told himself he must not do right from the time the dreams had first come to him. But that was no longer enough to deter him. There was a history of dreams in the Ohmsford family and almost always the dreams had a message.

“I just wish I was sure,” he murmured.

Coll was stretched out on his back now, eyes closed against the firelight. “Sure about what?”

“The dreams,” he hedged. “About whether or not they were sent.”

Coll snorted. “I’m sure enough for the both of us. There aren’t any Druids. There aren’t any Shadowen either. There aren’t any dark wraiths trying to send you messages in your sleep. There’s just you, overworked and under-rested, dreaming bits and pieces of the stories you sing about.”

Par lay back as well, pulling his blanket up about him. “I suppose so,” he agreed, inwardly not agreeing at all.

Coll rolled over on his side, yawning. “Tonight, you’ll probably dream about floods and fishes, damp as it is.”

Par said nothing. He listened for a time to the sound of the rain, staring up at the dark expanse of the canvas, catching the flicker of the firelight against its damp surface.

“Maybe I’ll choose my own dream,” he said softly.

Then he was asleep.



He did dream that night, the first time in almost two weeks. It was the dream he wanted, the dream of the dark-robed figure, and it was as if he were able to reach out and bring it to him. It seemed to come at once, to slip from the depths of his subconscious the moment sleep came. He was shocked at its suddenness, but didn’t wake. He saw the dark figure rise from the lake, watched it come for him, vague yet faceless, so menacing that he would have fled if he could. But the dream was master now and would not let him. He heard himself asking why the dream had been absent for so long, but there was no answer given. The dark figure simply approached in silence, not speaking, not giving any indication of its purpose.

Then it came to a stop directly before him, a being that could have been anything or anyone, good or evil, life or death.

Speak to me, he thought, frightened.

But the figure merely stood there, draped in shadow, silent and immobile. It seemed to be waiting.

Then Par stepped forward and pushed back the cowl that hid the other, emboldened by some inner strength he did not know he possessed. He drew the cowl free and the face beneath was as sharp as if etched in bright sunlight. He knew it instantly. He had sung of it a thousand times. It was as familiar to him as his own.

The face was Allanon’s.





IV