«I know this as well.»
«And still you ask me to come with you?»
«I do.»
«Without my being able to consult him first? Without being able to wait for his return? Without even an attempt at an explanation to him?»
The Druid looked suddenly angry. «I will make this easy for you, Brin Ohmsford. I ask nothing of you that is fair or reasonable, nothing of which your father would approve. I ask that you risk everything on little more than my word that it is necessary that you do so. I ask trust where there is probably little reason to trust. I ask all this and give nothing back. Nothing.»
He leaned forward then, half–rising from his chair, his face dark and menacing. «But I tell you this. If you think the matter through, you will see that, despite any argument you can put forth against it, you must still come with me!»
Even Rone did not choose to contradict him this time. The Druid held his position for a moment longer, dark robes spread wide as he braced himself on the table. Then slowly he settled back. There was a worn look to him now, a kind of silent desperation. It was not characteristic of the Allanon Brin’s father had described to her so often, and she was frightened by that.
«I will think the matter through as you ask,” she agreed, her voice almost a whisper. «But I need this night at least. I have to try to sort through… my feelings.»
Allanon seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. «We will talk again in the morning. Consider well, Brin Ohmsford.»
He started to rise and suddenly Jair was on his feet before him, his Elven face flushed. «Well, what about me? What about my feelings in this? If Brin goes, so do I! I’m not being left behind!»
«Jair, you can forget… !» Brin started to object, but Allanon cut her short with a glance. He rose and came around the table to stand before her brother.
«You have courage,” he said softly, one hand coming up to rest on the Valeman’s slender shoulder. «But yours is not the magic that I need on this journey. Your magic is illusion, and illusion will not get us past the Maelmord.»
«But you might be wrong,” Jair insisted. «Besides, I want to help!»
Allanon nodded. «You shall help. There is something that you must do while Brin and I are gone. You must be responsible for the safety of your parents, for seeing to it that the Mord Wraiths do not find them before I have destroyed the Ildatch. You must use the wishsong to protect them if the dark ones come looking. Will you do that?»
Brin did not care much for the Druid’s assumption that it was already decided that she would be going with him into the Eastland, and she cared even less for the suggestion that Jair ought to use the Elven magic as a weapon.
«I will do it if I must,” Jair was saying, a grudging tone in his voice. «But I would rather come with you.»
Allanon’s hand dropped from his shoulder. «Another time, Jair.»
«It may be another time for me as well,” Brin announced pointedly. «Nothing has been determined yet, Allanon.»
The dark face turned slowly. «There will be no other time for you, Brin,” he said softly. «Your time is here. You must come with me. You will see that by morning.»
Nodding once, he started past them toward the front entry, dark robes wrapped close.
«Where are you going, Allanon?» the Valegirl called after him.
«I will be close by,” he replied and did not slow. A moment later he was gone. Brin, Jair, and Rone Leah stared after him.
Rone was the first to speak. «Well, now what?»
Brin looked at him. «Now we go to bed.» She rose from the table.
«Bed!» The highlander was dumbfounded. «How can you go to bed after all that?» He waved vaguely in the direction of the departed Druid.
She brushed back her long black hair and smiled wanly. «How can I do anything else, Rone? I am tired, confused, and frightened, and I need to rest.»
She came over to him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. «Stay here for tonight.» She kissed Jair as well and hugged him. «Go to bed, both of you.»
Then she hurried down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door tightly behind her.
She slept for a time, a dream–filled, restless sleep in which subconscious fears took shape and came for her like wraiths. Chased and harried, she came awake with a start, the pillow damp with sweat. She rose then, slipped on her robe for warmth and passed silently through the darkened rooms of her home. At the dining room table she lighted an oil lamp, the flame turned low, seated herself, and stared wordlessly into the shadows.
A sense of helplessness curled about Brin. What was she to do? She remembered well the stories told her by her father and even her great–grandfather Shea Ohmsford when she was just a little girl — of what it had been like when the Warlock Lord had come down out of the Northland, his armies sweeping into Callahorn, the darkness of his coming enfolding the whole of the land. Where the Warlock Lord passed, the light died. Now, it was happening again: border wars between Gnomes and Dwarves; the Silver River poisoned and with it the land it fed; darkness falling over the Eastland. All was as it had been seventy–five years ago. This time, too, there was a way to stop it, to prevent the dark from spreading. Again, it was an Ohmsford who was being called upon to take that way — summoned, it seemed, because there was no other hope.
She hunched down into the warmth of her robe. Seemed — that was the key word where Allanon was concerned. How much of this was what it seemed? How much of what she had been told was truth — and how much half–truth? The stories of Allanon were all the same. The Druid possessed immense power and knowledge and shared but a fraction of each. He told what he felt he must and never more. He manipulated others to his purpose, and often that purpose was kept carefully concealed. When one traveled Allanon’s path, one did so knowing that the way would be kept dark.
Yet the way of the Mord Wraiths might be darker still, if they were indeed another form of the evil destroyed by the Sword of Shannara. She must weigh the darkness of one against the darkness of the other. Allanon might be devious and manipulative in his dealings with the Ohmsfords, but he was a friend to the Four Lands. What he did, he did in an effort to protect the races, not to bring them harm. And he had always been right before in his warnings. Surely there was no reason to believe that he was not right this time as well.
But was the wishsong’s magic strong enough to penetrate this barrier conceived by the evil? Brin found the idea incredible. What was the wishsong but a side effect of using the Elven magic? It had not even the strength of the Elfstones. It was not a weapon. Yet Allanon saw it as the only means by which the dark magic could be passed — the only means, when even his power had failed him.
Bare feet padded softly from the dining room entry, startling her. Rone Leah slipped clear of the shadows, crossed to the table, and seated himself.
«I couldn’t sleep either,” he muttered, blinking in the light of the oil lamp. «What have you decided?»
She shook her head. «Nothing. I don’t know what to decide. I keep asking myself what my father would do.»
«That’s easy.» Rone grunted. «He would tell you to forget the whole idea. It’s too dangerous. He’d also tell you — as he’s told both of us many times — that Allanon is not to be trusted.»
Brin brushed back her long black hair and smiled faintly. «You didn’t hear what I said, Rone. I said, I keep asking myself what my father would do — not what my father would tell me to do. It’s not the same thing, you know. If he were being asked to go, what would he do? Wouldn’t he go, just as he went when Allanon came to him in Storlock twenty years ago, knowing that Allanon was not altogether truthful; knowing that there was more than he was being told, but knowing, too, that he had magic that could be useful and that no one other than he had that magic?»