As the Valemen maneuvered their way through the crowds, Shea found himself reflecting on his improbable friendship with Menion Leah. It would have to be termed improbable, he mused, because on the surface they seemed to have so little in common. Valeman and highlander, with backgrounds so completely dissimilar as to defy any meaningful comparison. Shea, the adopted son of an innkeeper, hardheaded, pragmatic, and raised in the tradition of the workingman. Menion, the only son of the royal house of Leah and heir to the throne, born into a life filled with responsibilities he pointedly ignored, possessed of a brash self-confidence that he tried to conceal with only moderate success, and blessed with an uncanny hunter’s instinct that merited grudging respect even from so severe a critic as Flick. Their political philosophies were as unlike as their backgrounds. Shea was staunchly conservative, an advocate of the old ways, while Menion was convinced that the old ways had proved ineffective in dealing with the problems of the races.
Yet for all their differences, they had formed a friendship that evidenced mutual respect. Menion found his small friend to be anachronistic in his thinking at times, but he admired his conviction and determination. The Valeman, contrary to Flick’s oft-expressed opinion, was not blinded to Menion’s shortcomings, but he saw in the Prince of Leah something others were inclined to overlook—a strong, compelling sense of right and wrong.
At the present time, Menion Leah was pursuing life without any particular concern for the future. He traveled a good deal, he hunted the highland forests, but for the most part he seemed to spend his time finding new ways to get into trouble. His hard-earned expertise with the long bow and as a tracker achieved no useful purpose. On the contrary, it merely served to aggravate his father, who had repeatedly but unsuccessfully attempted to interest his son and only heir in the problems of governing his kingdom. One day, Menion would be a king, but Shea doubted that his lighthearted friend ever gave the possibility more than a passing thought. This was foolish, if somewhat expected. Menion’s mother had died several years ago, shortly after Shea had first visited the highlands. Menion’s father was not an old man, but the death of a king did not always come with age, and many former rulers of Leah had died suddenly and unexpectedly. If something unforeseen should befall his father, Menion would become king whether he was prepared or not. There would be some lessons learned then, Shea thought and smiled in spite of himself.
The Leah ancestral home was a wide, two-story stone building nestled peacefully amid a cluster of spreading hickories and small gardens. The grounds were screened away from the surrounding city by high shrubbery. A broad park lay directly across from a small walkway fronting the home, and as the Valemen crossed wearily to the front gates, children splashed playfully through a small pond at the hub of the park’s several paths. The day was still warm, and people hurried past the travelers on their way to meet friends or to reach their homes and families. In the west, the late afternoon sky was deepening into a soft golden haze.
The tall iron gates were ajar, and the Valemen walked quickly toward the front door of the home, winding through the long stone walkway’s high shrubbery and garden borders. They were still approaching the stone threshold at the front of the home, when the heavy oak door opened from within and there, unexpectedly, was Menion Leah. Dressed in a multicolored cloak and vest of green and pale yellow, his lean, whip-like frame moved with the graceful ease of a cat. He was not a big man, though several inches taller than the Valemen, but he was broad through the shoulders and his long arms gave him a rangy look. He was on his way down a side path, but when he caught sight of the two ragged, dusty figures approaching along the main walk, he stopped short. A moment later his eyes went wide with surprise.
“Shea!” he exclaimed sharply. “What in the name of all… what happened to you?”
He rushed over quickly to his friend and gripped the slim hand warmly.
“Good to see you, Menion,” Shea said with a smile.
The highlander stepped back a pace, and his gray eyes studied them shrewdly.
“I never expected that my letter would get results this quickly…” He trailed off and studied the other’s weary face. “It hasn’t, has it? But don’t tell me—I don’t want to hear it. I’d rather assume for the sake of our friendship that you came just to visit me. And brought distrustful old Flick, too, I see. This is a surprise.”
He grinned quickly past Shea at the scowling Flick, who nodded curtly.
“This wasn’t my idea, you may be sure.”
“I wish that our friendship alone were the reason for this visit.” Shea sighed heavily. “I wish I didn’t have to involve you in any of this, but I’m afraid that we’re in serious trouble and you are the one person who might be able to help us.”
Menion started to smile, then changed his mind quickly as he caught the mood reflected in the other’s drawn face and nodded soberly.
“Nothing funny about this, is there? Well, a hot bath and some dinner are the first order of business. We can discuss what brought you here later. Come on in. My father’s engaged on the border, but I’m at your disposal.”
Once inside, Menion directed the servants to take charge of the Valemen, and they were led off to a welcome bath and a change of clothes. An hour later, the three friends gathered in the great hall for a dinner that would ordinarily have fed twice their number, but on this night barely satisfied them. As they ate, Shea related to Menion the strange tale behind their flight from Shady Vale. He described Flick’s meeting with the mysterious wanderer Allanon and the involved story behind the Sword of Shannara. It was necessary, despite Allanon’s order of secrecy, if he must ask Menion’s help. He told of the coming of Balinor with his terse warning, of their narrow escape from the black Skull creature, and finally of their flight to the highlands. Shea did all the talking. Flick was unwilling to enter into the conversation, resisting the temptation he felt to elaborate on his own part in the events of the past few weeks. He chose to keep quiet because he was determined not to trust Menion. He was convinced that it would be better for the Valemen if at least one of them kept his guard up and his mouth closed.
Menion Leah listened quietly to the long tale, evincing no visible surprise until the part about Shea’s background, with which he appeared immeasurably pleased. His lean brown face remained for the most part an inscrutable mask, broken only by that perpetual half smile and the small wrinkles at the corners of the sharp gray eyes. He recognized quickly enough why the Valemen had come to him. They cool never expect to make it from Leah through the lowlands of Clete and from there through the Black Oaks without assistance from someone who knew the country—someone they could trust. Correction, Menion thought, smiling inwardly—someone Shea could trust. He knew that Flick would never have agreed to come to Leah unless his brother had insisted. There had never been much of a friendship between Flick and himself. Still, they were both here, both willing to seek his help, whatever the reason, and he would never be able to refuse anything to Shea, even where there was risk to his own life.
Shea finished his story and waited patiently for Menion’s response. The highlander seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the half-filled glass of wipe at his elbow. When he spoke, his voice was distant:
“The Sword of Shannara. I haven’t heard that story in years—never really believed it was true. Now out of complete obscurity it reappears with my old friend Shea Ohmsford as the heir apparent. Or are you?” His eyes snapped up suddenly. “You could be a red herring, a decoy for these Northland creatures to chase and destroy. How can we be sure about Allanon? From the tale you’ve told me, he seems almost as dangerous as the things hunting you—perhaps even one of them.”