High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [50]
He knelt next to the Dwarf, taking quick, short breaths, feeling light-headed. “What happened? Why didn’t it see us?”
“Perhaps it didn’t recognize you for who you were,” a voice replied from behind them.
For the second time in only minutes, Pen experienced heart failure, jumping with the unexpected sound, almost falling over Tagwen, who was just as startled. Crouched in one corner of the pilot box, man and boy turned to see who had spoken.
An old man stood looking at them, an ancient so bent and gnarled that it seemed impossible he could have managed to climb aboard. He braced himself with a polished black staff that glistened like deep waters in moonlight, and his robes were so white they gleamed like the moon itself. Long gray hair and a heavy beard fell about his chest and shoulders, and his eyes had an oddly childlike twinkle to them, as if the old man had never quite grown up all the way.
Pen, recovering from the shock of finding him there, said, “Why wouldn’t they recognize us?”
“Sometimes things don’t look quite the way we expect them to,” the old man said. “Especially at night, when shadows drape the world and mask the truth.”
“We were right out in the open,” Pen persisted. He stood up again, deciding there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at the ancient’s strange eyes, finding himself drawn to something reflected in them, something that reminded him of himself, though he couldn’t say what. “Did you do something to make them not see us?”
The old man smiled. “Penderrin Ohmsford. I knew your father, years ago. He came looking for something, too. I helped him find what it was. Now, it seems, it is your turn.”
“My turn?” Pen stared at him. “How do you know who I am? My father didn’t tell you, did he? No, this was before I was born, wasn’t it?”
The old man nodded, amused. “Your father was still a boy, just as you are now.”
Tagwen struggled to his feet, straightening his rumpled clothes and squaring his stocky body away. “Who are you?” he asked boldly. “What are you doing out here? How do you know so much about Pen and his father?”
“So many questions,” the old man said softly. “Life is full of them, and we spend it seeking their answers, first of one, then of another. It is our passion, as thinking creatures, to do so. Do you not know me, Tagwen? You are of the Dwarf people, and the Dwarf people have known me for centuries.”
But it was Pen who answered, hesitating only a moment before saying, “I know who you are. The King of the Silver River. My father told me of you — how you came to him when he was traveling with my uncle, Quentin Leah, into the Eastland. You showed him a vision of my aunt, before he knew she was his sister. You gave him a phoenix stone to help protect him on his journey across the Blue Divide.”
All who resided in the Four Lands knew the legend of the King of the Silver River, though not all believed it. He was said to be a Faerie creature, as old as the Word itself, come into being at the same time and made part of the world in its infancy. The last of his kind, he was caretaker of wondrous gardens hidden somewhere in the Silver River country, a place where no humans were allowed. He was seen now and then by travelers, always in different forms. Sometimes he would give aid to them when they were lost or in peril. He had done as much for several generations of Ohmsfords, going all the way back to Shea and Flick, in the time of the Druid Allanon. Others in the Four Lands might doubt his existence, but those like Bek, who had encountered him, and Pen, who had heard his father’s story, did not.
“Well spoken, Penderrin,” the old man said. “You are clearly your father’s son. What we must determine now is if your courage is a match for his.” He came forward in a sort of half shuffle, stopping at the pilot box steps. “Are you brave enough to undertake a journey to find your missing aunt and bring her safely home again?”
Pen glanced quickly at Tagwen, searching for reassurance and finding only surprise