That was almost a hundred years ago, and now only the Trolls remained a free people, still entrenched deep within the mountains of the Northland, the Charnals, and the Kershalt. That was dangerous, hostile country, a natural fortress, and no one from the Federation wanted much to do with it. The decision was made to leave it alone as long as the Trolls did not interfere with the other lands. The Trolls, very much a reclusive people for the whole of their history, were happy to oblige.
“It’s all so different now,” Par concluded wistfully as they continued to sit within their shelter and watch the rain fall into the Mermidon. “No more Druids, no Paranor, no magic—except the fake kind and the little we know.
“No Elves. Whatever happened to them do you think?” He paused, but Coll didn’t have anything to say. “No monarchies, no Leah, no Buckhannahs, no Legion Free Corps, no Callahorn for all intents and purposes.”
“No freedom,” Coll finished darkly.
“No freedom,” Par echoed.
He rocked back, drawing his legs tight against his chest. “I wish I knew how the Elfstones disappeared. And the Sword. What happened to the Sword of Shannara?”
Coll shrugged. “Same thing that happens to everything eventually. It got lost.”
“What do you mean? How could they let it get lost?”
“No one was taking care of it.”
Par thought about that. It made sense. No one bothered much with the magic after Allanon died, after the Druids were gone. The magic was simply ignored, a relic from another time, a thing feared and misunderstood for the most part. It was easier to forget about it, and so they did. They all did. He had to include the Ohmsfords as well—otherwise they would still have the Elfstones. All that was left of their magic was the wishsong.
“We know the stories, the tales of what it was like, we have all that history, and we still don’t know anything,” he said softly.
“We know the Federation doesn’t want us talking about it,” Coll offered archly. “We know that.”
“There are times that I wonder what difference it makes anyway.” Par’s face twisted into a grimace. “After all, people come to hear us and the day after, who remembers? Anyone besides us? And what if they do? It’s all ancient history—not even that to some. To some, it’s legend and myth, a lot of nonsense.”
“Not to everyone,” Coll said quietly.
“What’s the use of having the wishsong, if the telling of the stories isn’t going to make any difference? Maybe the stranger was right. Maybe there are better uses for the magic’
“Like aiding the outlaws in their fight against the Federation? Like getting yourself killed?” Coll shook his head. “That’s as pointless as not using it at all.”
There was a sudden splash from somewhere out in the river, and the brothers turned as one to seek out its source. But there was only the churning of rain-swollen waters and nothing else.
“Everything seems pointless.” Par kicked at the earth in front of him. “What are we doing, Coll? Chased out of Varfleet as much as if we were outlaws ourselves, forced to take that boat like thieves, made to run for home like dogs with our tails between our legs.” He paused, looking over at his brother. “Why do you think we still have use of the magic?”
Coll’s blocky face shifted slightly toward Par’s. “What do you mean?”
“Why do we have it? Why hasn’t it disappeared along with everything else? Do you think there’s a reason?”
There was a long silence, “I don’t know,” Coll said finally. He hesitated. “I don’t know what it’s like to have the magic’
Par stared at him, realizing suddenly what he had asked and ashamed he had done so.
“Not that I’d want it, you understand,” Coll added hastily, aware of his brother’s discomfort. “One of us with the magic is enough.” He grinned.
Par grinned back. “I expect so.” He looked at Coll appreciatively for a moment, then yawned. “You want to go to sleep?”
Coll shook his head and eased his big frame back into the shadows a bit. “No, I want to talk some more. It’s a good night for talking.”
Nevertheless, he was silent then, as if he had nothing to say after all. Par studied him for a few moments, then they both looked back out over the Mermidon, watching as a massive tree limb washed past, apparently knocked down by the storm. The wind, which had blown hard at first, was quiet now, and the rain was falling straight down, a steady, gentle sound as it passed through the trees.
Par found himself thinking about the stranger who had rescued them from the Federation Seekers. He had puzzled over the man’s identity for the better part of the day, and he still hadn’t a clue as to who he was. There was something familiar about him, though—something in the way he talked, an assurance, a confidence. It reminded him of someone from one of the stories he told, but he couldn’t decide who. There were so many tales and many of them were about men like that one, heroes in the days of magic and Druids, heroes Par had thought were missing from this age. Maybe he had been wrong. The stranger at the Blue Whisker had been impressive in his rescue of them. He seemed prepared to stand up to the Federation. Perhaps there was hope for the Four Lands yet.
He leaned forward and fed another few sticks of dead-wood into the little fire, watching the smoke curl out from beneath the canvas shelter into the night. Lightning flashed suddenly farther east, and a long peal of thunder followed.
“Some dry clothes would be good right now,” he muttered. “Mine are damp just from the air.”
Coll nodded. “Some hot stew and bread, too.”
“A bath and a warm bed.”
“Maybe the smell of fresh spices.”
“And rose water.”
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.