His fingers tightened on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “I made the mistake of thinking I could shape the future in the way I sought. I was wrong. Life doesn’t permit it, not even if you are a Druid. We are given glimpses of possibilities, nothing more. The future is a map drawn in the sand, and the tide can wash it away in a moment. It is so here. All of our efforts in coming to this land, Truls, all of our sacrifices, have been for something we never once considered.”
He paused, his breathing weak and labored, the effort of speaking further too much for him.
“Then what did we come here for?” Truls Rohk asked impatiently, still angered by what he was hearing. “What, Druid?”
“For her,” Walker whispered, and pointed at Grianne.
The shape-shifter was so stunned that for a moment he could not seem to find anything to say in response. It was as if the fire had gone out of him completely.
“We came for Grianne?” Bek asked in surprise, not sure he had heard correctly.
“It will become clear to you when you are home again,” Walker whispered, his words almost inaudible, even in the deep silence of the cavern. “She is your charge, Bek. She is your responsibility now, your sister recovered as you wished she might be. Return her to the Four Lands. Do what you must, but see her home again.”
“This makes no sense at all!” Truls Rohk snapped in fury. “She is our enemy!”
“Give me your word, Bek,” Walker said, his eyes never leaving the boy.
Bek nodded. “You have it.”
Walker held his gaze a moment longer, then looked at the shape-shifter. “And you, as well, Truls. Your word.”
For a moment, Bek thought Truls Rohk wasn’t going to give it. The shape-shifter didn’t say anything, staring at the Druid in silence. Tension radiated from his dark form, yet he refused to reveal what he was thinking.
Walker’s fingers kept their death grip on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “Your word,” he whispered again. “Trust me enough to give it.”
Truls Rohk exhaled in a hiss of frustration and dismay. “All right. I give you my word.”
“Care for her as you would for each other,” the Druid continued, his eyes back on Bek. “She will not always be like this. She will recover one day. But until then, she needs looking after. She needs you to ward her from danger.”
“What can we do to help her wake?” Bek pressed.
The Druid took a long, ragged breath. “She must help herself, Bek. The Sword of Shannara has revealed to her the truth about her life, about the lies she has been told and the wrong paths she has taken. She has been forced to confront who she has become and what she has done. She is barely grown, and already she has committed more heinous wrongs and destructive acts than others will commit in a lifetime. She has much to forgive herself for, even given the fact that she was so badly misled by the Morgawr. The responsibility for finding forgiveness lies with her. When she finds a way to accept that, she will recover.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Truls Rohk asked. “It may be, Druid, that she is beyond forgiveness, not just from others, but even from herself. She is a monster, even in this world.”
Bek gave the shape-shifter an angry glance, thinking that Truls would never change his opinion of Grianne, that to him she would always be the Ilse Witch and his enemy.
The Druid had a fit of coughing, then steadied. “She is human, Truls—like you,” he replied softly. “Others labeled you a monster. They were wrong to do so. It is the same with her. She is not beyond redemption. But that is her path to walk, not yours. Yours is to see that she has the chance to walk it.”
He coughed again, more deeply. His breathing was so thick and wet that with every breath it seemed he might choke on his own blood. The sound of it emanated from deep in his chest, where his lungs were filling. Yet he lifted himself into a sitting position, freed himself from Truls Rohk’s arms, and motioned him away.
“Leave me. Take Grianne and walk back to the cavern entrance. When I am gone, follow the passageway that bears left all the way to the surface. Seek out the others who still live—the Rovers, Ahren Elessedil, Ryer Ord Star. Quentin Leah, perhaps. One or two more, if they were lucky. Sail home again. Don’t linger here. Antrax is finished. The Old World has gone back into the past for good. The New World, the Four Lands, is what matters.”
Truls Rohk stayed where he was. “I won’t leave you alone. Don’t ask it of me.”
Walker’s head sagged, his dark hair falling forward to shadow his lean face. “I won’t be alone, Truls. Now go.”
Truls Rohk hesitated, then rose slowly to his feet. Bek stood up, as well, taking Grianne’s hand and pulling her up with him. For a moment no one moved, then the shape-shifter wheeled away without a word and started back through the loose rock for the cavern entrance. Bek followed wordlessly, leading Grianne, glancing back over his shoulder to look at Walker. The Druid was slumped by the edge of the underground lake, his dark robes wet with his blood, the slow, gentle heave of his shoulders the only indication that he still lived. Bek had an almost uncontrollable urge to turn around and go back for him, but he knew it would be pointless. The Druid had made his choice.
At the cavern entrance, Truls Rohk glanced back at Bek, then stopped abruptly and pointed toward the lake. “Druid games, boy,” he hissed. “Look! See what happens now!”
Bek turned. The lake was roiling and churning at its center, and a wicked green light shone from its depths. A dark and spectral figure rose from its center and hung suspended in the air. A face lifted out of the cloak’s hood, dusky-skinned and black-bearded, a face Bek, without ever having seen it before, knew at once.
“Allanon,” he whispered.
Walker Boh dreamed of the past. He was no longer in pain, but his weariness was so overwhelming that he barely knew where he was. His sense of time had evaporated, and it seemed to him now that yesterday was as real and present as today. So it was that he found himself remembering how he had become a Druid, so long ago that all those who were there at the time were gone now. He had never wanted to be one of them, had never trusted the Druids as an order. He had lived alone for many years, avoiding his Ohmsford heritage and any contact with its other descendants. It had taken the loss of his arm to turn him to his destiny, to persuade him that the blood mark bestowed three hundred years earlier by Allanon on the forehead of his ancestor, Brin Ohmsford, had been intended for him.
That was a long time ago.
Everything was so long ago.
He watched the greenish light rise out of the depths of the underground lake, breaking the surface of its waters in shards of brightness. He watched it widen and spread, then grow in intensity as a path from the netherworld opened beneath. It was a languid, surreal experience and became a part of his dreams.
When the cloaked figure appeared in the light’s emerald wake, he knew at once who it was. He knew instinctively, just as he knew he was dying. He watched with weary anticipation, ready to embrace what waited, to cast off the chains of his life. He had borne his burden of office for as long as he was able. He had done the best he could. He had regrets, but none that gave him more than passing pause. What he had accomplished would not be apparent right away to those who mattered, but it would become clear in time. Some would embrace it. Some would turn away. In either case, it was out of his hands.
The dark figure crossed the surface of the lake to where Walker lay and reached for him. His hand lifted automatically in response. Allanon’s dark countenance stared down, penetrating eyes fixing on him. There was approval in those eyes. There was a promise of peace.