The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy by Terry Brooks
For the moment, she was willing to accept that compromise, having little interest in Arborlon and family in any event, though there were times when her resolve was sorely tested.
“My brother is off visiting the Prekkendorran,” she said, brushing Ahren’s concerns aside. “He gives little thought to me. For the most part, he doesn’t even know where I am. He doesn’t know now, as a matter of fact.”
Ahren looked at her. “Does anyone?”
“Mother.”
He nodded. “Your passion for the Druidic arts, for elemental magic’s secrets, can’t sit well with her. She sees you married and producing grandchildren.”
Khyber grunted. “She sees poorly these days. But then I don’t do much to enlighten her. She would only worry, and Kellen gives her reason enough for that. Besides, she has grandchildren—my brother’s sons, good, stout, warrior lads, all three. They fill her grandmotherly needs nicely.”
They walked into the village and down the single road that formed its center, to Ahren’s small cottage at the far end. He had built it himself and continued to work on it from time to time, telling her he found working with his hands relaxing. He kept a project in the works at all times, the better perhaps to get through the demands of his service to the Westland. At present, he was installing a new roof, a shingle-shake overlay that required hand-splitting new shingles to replace the old. It was taxing and time-consuming, which she supposed was just what he wanted.
They sat at a small outdoor table in the sunlight and ate cheese, apples, and bread washed down with cold ale from his earth cellar. Food and drink always tasted better in Emberen than at home. It had to do with the company, but also with the life of the village. In Emberen she was just Khyber to everyone she knew, not Princess or Highness or some other deferential term. Nothing was expected of her save common courtesy and decent manners. She was just like everyone else, or as much so as was possible in a world of inequities.
Her command of the Druid magic set her apart, of course, just as it did Ahren. Well, not as much so as Ahren, who was more highly skilled in its use. But the point was that the villagers regarded the use of elemental magic as a trade, a craft of great value and some mystery but, ultimately, of much good. Her uncle had never done anything to persuade them otherwise, and she intended to follow in his steps. She knew the history of magic in the Four Lands, both within and without the family. All too often, magic had caused great harm, sometimes unintentionally. In many places, it was still mistrusted and feared. But with the formation of the new Druid Council, the Ard Rhys had mandated that magic’s use embody caution and healing in order for it to be sanctioned. In spite of her checkered past—or perhaps because of it—she had dedicated the Druid order to that end. Khyber had witnessed the results of that commitment in the nature of the service undertaken by Druids like her uncle, who had left Paranor and gone out into the Four Lands to work with its people. The effect of their efforts was apparent. Slowly, but surely, the use of elemental magic was being accepted everywhere.
She would undertake such a mission, as well, one day soon. She would study at Paranor and then go out into the Four Lands to apply her skills. She was determined to make something of her life beyond what the others in her family had envisioned. It was her life, after all, not theirs. She would live it the way she chose.
“I want to work with the stones again this afternoon,” she announced, thinking suddenly of something else entirely and feeling a sudden heat rise to her face.
One of their lessons was in the cracking open of rocks by touch and thought applied in precise combination, a technique in which envisioning a result leads to its happening. A Druid could manage it, just as easily as tearing paper between fingers. She hadn’t found the skill for it herself, but she was determined it would be hers.
“We can do that,” he agreed. “So long as you swear to me that you are not violating any promises or arousing any concerns by being here.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I have another week before my brother returns and looks to find everything the way he left it. I will be back by then.”
But not before you show me what you know about what I carry, she thought to herself. My secret, for now, but I will reveal it to you before I leave and you will teach me to make use of it.
Her heart pounded at the prospect. She was uncertain how her request would be received—uncertain, for that matter, of his reaction to what she had done. She had taken an enormous chance, but she had learned a long time ago that if you didn’t take chances now and then in a royal family, nothing ever was permitted you that you really wanted. Mostly, her family wanted to keep her safe and compliant, and she had never wanted to be either of those.
It was surprising to her that after all these years, any of them really thought she would ever be docile. When she was little, she was her brother’s worst nightmare. Kellen was older and stronger, but she was always the more daring. She learned everything first and learned it quicker. She was the better rider, her bond with horses instinctual and passionate. She was better with weapons, able to battle him to a draw when he was a head taller and she barely strong enough to wield the practice blades. When he was intent on his studies of court practices and statesmanship, she was off wandering the forests and river country that surrounded her home. At eight, she ran away and got as far as the Sarandanon before a family of wheat farmers recognized her and brought her back. At twelve, she had already flown in an airship all the way to Callahorn, stowed away in the hold until she was discovered.
And all that didn’t even touch on the times she had disguised herself as an Elven Hunter to go off on dangerous forays into country so wild that if her father had been alive, she would have been locked in her rooms for a month when she was brought back.
But he wasn’t alive, by then; he was dead, killed on the Prekkendorran. Her brother was King, and he was still intimidated by her. He gave her a lecture that would have scorched paint in a rainstorm before turning his mind to less troublesome concerns, but a lecture was nothing to her.
She brushed back her thick, unruly hair. Sometimes she thought she should just cut it all off and be done with it, but her mother would have reacted to that much the same way she would have reacted if Khyber had announced she was going to marry a Troll. There was no point in antagonizing her mother, who was her sole source of support and confidence.
She finished off her cheese and bread, watching her uncle surreptitiously. It was hard to know what he was thinking. His expression never really changed, the result of his Druid discipline, which taught that emotions must be contained if magic was to be successfully wielded. She wanted to tell him what she had done when he was in a good mood. But how could she know? She grimaced. She recognized what she was doing. She was procrastinating. She should just tell him. Right here. Right now.
Nevertheless, she did not. She finished her glass of ale, rose, and began to clear the table of plates and glasses. It was one of the small services she could perform on her visits, and she liked doing something for her uncle that no one else would. He lived alone, and some said he did so because he preferred it that way. He had been in love a long time ago with a seer on the Jerle Shannara, though he had never said as much when speaking of her. He had been only a boy himself in those days, younger even than she was now, and much more sheltered. The seer had been killed on the voyage, and Khyber was fairly sure he had never gotten over it. She had done something important for him, something that had helped him grow into the man he was, although once again he never said exactly what that something was.
Since then, there had been only one other woman—a sorceress, who had loved him desperately. Khyber had seen them together, and it was frightening how determined the other woman was that Ahren Elessedil should be hers. But he had decided otherwise and never spoke of her now. Apparently, she was as exiled from his life as he was from Arborlon’s.
“Have you ever thought about returning to Paranor?” she asked impulsively, pausing on her way in
He looked at her. “Now and then. But I think I belong here, in the Westland. Paranor is a place for study and Druid politics. Neither is for me. What are you really asking, Khyber?”
She made a face. “Nothing. I just wondered if you ever missed the company of other Druids, the ones who still remain at Paranor.”
“You mean her,” he said, his smile sad and ironic. He was too quick, she thought. He could read her mind. “No,” he said. “That’s done.”
“I just think it would help if you had someone living here with you. Someone to help you. So you wouldn’t be lonely.”
It sounded stupid, even to her. He laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t be her, in any case. She isn’t the kind to help others when she has herself to worry about. Why are you so eager to see me partnered? I don’t see you looking around for someone to marry.”
She stalked into the house without replying, thinking that her good intentions were wasted on her uncle. He was right about her, of course, but that was beside the point. She was too young to marry, and he would soon be too old and too set in his ways. In fact, he already was, she decided. There was no room in his life for anything but his work. She didn’t know why she thought that it might be otherwise. He would live alone until he died, and she might as well accept it. She would just have to do the best she could for him on her visits and hope he got by the rest of the time.
She had just returned for the rest of the dishes when she heard a shout from the other end of the village, and Elves came running out of their houses and workshops, looking skyward.
“An airship,” Ahren said, getting to his feet at once.
No airships ever came to Emberen. It was too small and too isolated. There was only one road, and much of the year it was sodden and rutted and virtually impassable by wagon or cart. Khyber always came on horseback, knowing that she could be assured of getting in and out again that way. Flying vessels in that part of the world were rare. Some of the Elves who lived in the village had never even seen one.
She followed Ahren down the road and through the village toward the sound of the shouting, joining the flow of the crowd and trying to make out the ship through the heavy canopy of limbs. She had no idea where it might find a place to land in woods as heavy as those surrounding Emberen, but she supposed there must be a large enough clearing somewhere nearby. Ahren was striding ahead, gray Druid robes whipping about his ankles, and she thought from the purposeful nature of his walk that he was concerned that whoever had taken the trouble to fly an airship to Emberen might not have their best interests at heart. A rush of excitement flooded through her at the prospect of whom it might be. Maybe the routine of her studies was about to take an unexpected, but rather more interesting turn.
The crowd reached the end of the road and turned down a pathway that led into the trees. Overhead, she caught a glimpse of movement. The airship appeared momentarily and was gone again, circling the trees. It wasn’t very big—a skiff at best.
She broke into a narrow clearing just as the airship started down, a slow looping motion that brought it in line with a narrow opening in the forest canopy. She could see it clearly by then, a small skiff of the sort favored by Southlanders who did their flying across the inland lakes. Even though it was coming down at a precipitous decline, she didn’t think that its power had failed. Nevertheless, given the tightness of the space, the pilot was taking a dangerous risk. Whoever was flying had better be pretty good or the airship would end up in pieces in the trees.
“They’re landing!” someone belatedly cried out in surprise.
As the pilot continued to maneuver toward the slot, the Elves scattered back into the trees, pointing and shouting. Khyber stood her ground, not wanting to miss the details of the landing. She had flown on airships, but never seen one landed in a space so small. She wanted to see how it was done. She wanted to see if the pilot could do it.
She got more than she bargained for. It appeared the craft would touch down before it reached her, but at the last minute it lurched drunkenly, skipped across the forest floor, and came right at her. If Ahren hadn’t yanked her out of the way and thrown her down, she might have been struck by the pieces of metal that broke loose and flew wildly in all directions. The little skiff slammed into the ground, tore open huge ruts with its pontoons, and came to a halt not twenty feet from where she crouched.
Ahren released his grip on her arm and stood her back up. “You need to pay better attention, Khyber,” he said quietly.
She rubbed her arm and shrugged carelessly. “Sorry, Uncle Ahren. I just wanted to watch.”
The Elves began to filter out of the trees for a look at the airship’s occupants, one of whom, a boy who was younger than she was, stood on the skiff’s deck, surveying the damage and shaking his head. She stared. Was he the one who had been flying the skiff? This boy? Then a second head popped up from one of the storage holds in the starboard pontoon, a Dwarf who looked as if he didn’t know whether to strangle the boy or embrace him.
“Is that Tagwen?” Ahren whispered in disbelief. “Shades, I think it is. What is he doing here?”
With Khyber right beside him, he hurried forward to find out.
THIRTEEN
Penderrin Ohmsford hauled himself out of the pilot box, brushed off his rumpled clothes, and surveyed the little skiff with no small sense of satisfaction. Another vessel would have broken apart on impact, coming in as fast and as hard as she had. That they were down safely at all was a miracle, but he had survived tougher landings and had never really been in doubt about the outcome.
Tagwen did not share that reaction. The Dwarf was incensed as he climbed out of the storage bin into which he had fallen, and pointed a shaking finger at the boy.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to kill us? I thought you said you could fly this thing! Didn’t you tell me you could? Why your aunt thinks you are so good at flying escapes me! I could have done a better job myself!”
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 enthusia
“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.”