He paused. “Unfortunately, the Morgawr discovered the existence of this magic as well. The Morgawr has lived for a very long time, hidden away in the Wilderun. He may have been an ally of the Shadowen, but he was not one of them and was not destroyed as they were. He surfaced about fifty years ago and began to expand his influence to the Federation. He is a powerful warlock, with ties to the Eastland Mwellrets and shape-shifters. It was because of these ties that I learned about his interest in your family. I was friends with Truls Rohk by then, and several times he followed shape-shifters that had gone to your home. They didn’t do anything but observe, but it was a clear warning that something wasn’t right.”
He stopped talking as a clutch of Rovers came down off the aft decking and moved to the forward stairway. Their work for the night was finished, and they were eager for sleep. One or two glanced over, then looked quickly away. In seconds, the Druid and the boy were alone again.
“I should have realized what was happening, but I was preoccupied with trying to form a Druid Council at Paranor.” Walker shook his head. “I didn’t act quickly enough. A band of Mwellrets dressed in black cloaks and led by the Morgawr killed your parents and burned your house to the ground. They made it look like an attack by Gnome raiders. Your sister hid you in a cold room off the cellar and told them you were dead when they took her. It was Grianne they wanted all along, for her magic, for the power of the wishsong. The Morgawr coveted her. His intent was to subvert her, to make her his disciple, his student in the use of her magic. He tricked her into believing that the black-cloaked Mwellrets were Druid led and influenced. I became the enemy she grew up hating. All of my efforts to change that, to rescue her, to gain her trust so that she might discover the truth, have failed.”
He gestured toward the enfolding wall of mist. “Now she hunts me, Bek, somewhere out there on that other airship.” He looked at the boy. “Your sister is the Ilse Witch.”
They stood for a while without speaking, looking off into the void where the woman who had once been Grianne Ohmsford tracked them. The enormity of Walker’s revelation settled over Bek. Was it the truth or was the Druid playing games with him here, as well? He had so many questions, but they all jumbled together and screamed at him at once. He did not know what he was supposed to do with what he had been told. He could see the possibilities, but he could not make himself consider them yet. He found himself remembering the nighttime visit of the King of the Silver River, all those months ago, and of the forms the spirit creature had taken—the girl, who was the past, and the monster, who was the present. That girl, he now understood, was his sister. That was why she had seemed so familiar to him—he still retained a memory of her child’s face. The monster was what she had become, the Ilse Witch. But the future remained to be determined—by Bek, who must not shy from his search, his need to know, or what his heart compelled him to do.
The jumble of questions gave way to just one. Was it within his power to change his sister back?
“There is one last thing, Bek,” Walker said suddenly. “Come with me.”
He moved away from the railing toward the center of the airship, and the boy followed. Within the pilot box, black-bearded Spanner Frew faced ahead into the gloom, paying them no attention, his eyes sweeping the mist and the dark.
“Does she know I’m alive?” Bek asked quietly.
The Druid shook his head. “She believes you dead. She has no reason to believe otherwise. Truls Rohk found you in the ruins of your home three days after your sister was stolen. He was keeping watch on his own and had seen the Mwellrets returning through the Wolfsktaag. He was able to find the hiding place that they had missed. You were almost dead by then. He brought you to me, and when you were strong enough, I took you to Coran Leah.”
“Yet my sister blames you for what happened.”
“She is deceived by her own bitterness and the Morgawr’s guile. His story of what happened is quite different from the truth, but it is a story she has come to believe. Now she cloaks herself in her magic’s power and shuts out the world. She seeks to be a fortress that no one can breach.”
“Except perhaps for me? Is that why I’m here? Is that what the King of the Silver River was showing me?”
The Druid said nothing.
They stopped before the mysterious object he had brought aboard in secret and wrapped in chains of magic. It sat solitary and impenetrable against the foremast, a rectangular box set on end, standing perhaps seven feet in height and three feet across and deep. The canvas concealed all trace of what lay beneath, revealing only size and shape. The chains glistened with the mist’s damp and on closer inspection seemed to have no beginning and no end.
Bek glanced around. The decks of the airship were deserted this night save for the helmsman and a pair of Elven Hunters of the watch, who were clustered about the aft railing. None of these would venture forward to take up his position while the Druid stood talking with the boy. In the wake of the airship’s silent passing, the only movement came from the shadows in the mist.
“No one will see what I show you now but you and me,” the Druid said softly.
He passed his hand before the casing, and it was as if the side they were facing melted away. Within the blackness revealed, suspended blade downward, was a sword. The sword was slender and its metal shone a deep-bluish silver against the surrounding dark. The handle was old and worn, but finely wrought. Carved into its polished wooden grip was a fist that clenched and thrust aloft a burning torch.
“This is the Sword of Shannara, Bek,” the Druid whispered, bending close so that his words would carry no farther than the boy’s ears. “This, too, is your legacy. It is the birthright of the descendants of the Elven King Jerle Shannara, for whom this vessel is named. Only a member of the Shannara bloodline can wield this blade. Ohmsfords, who were the last of the Shannara, have carried this sword into battle against the Warlock Lord and the Shadowen. They have used it to champion the freedom of the races for more than a thousand years.”
He touched Bek’s shoulder lightly. “Now it is your turn.”
Bek knew the stories. He knew them all, just as he knew the history of the Druids and the Wars of the Races and all the rest. No one had seen this talisman in over five hundred years, when Shea Ohmsford stood against the Warlock Lord and destroyed him—though there were rumors it had resurfaced in the battle with the Shadowen. Rumors, the Druid’s words would suggest, that were true.
“The sword is a talisman for truth, Bek. It was forged to defend against lies that enslave and conceal. It is a powerful talisman, and it requires strength of will and heart to wield. It needs a bearer who will not shrink from the pain and doubt and fear that embracing the truth sometimes engenders. You are a worthy successor to those others of your family who have been called to the sword’s service. You are strong and determined. Much of what I exposed you to on this voyage was meant to measure that. I will be frank with you. Without your help, without the Sword’s power to aid us, we are probably lost.”
He turned back to the casing and passed his hand in front of it once more. The Sword of Shannara disappeared, and the wrappings of canvas and chains were restored.
Bek continued staring at them, as if still seeing the talisman they concealed. “You’re giving the Sword of Shannara to me?”
The Druid nodded.
The boy’s voice was shaking as he spoke. “Walker, I don’t know if I can—”
“No, Bek,” the Druid interrupted him quickly, gently. “Say nothing tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough. There is much to discuss, and we will do so then. You’ll have questions, and I will do my best to answer them. We will work together to prepare for what will happen when it is necessary for you to summon the sword’s magic.”