Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [186]
“Thanks, Bek. Thanks very much.”
Bek was on his way back to Quentin when Walker stopped him amidships and turned him gently aside. “That was very foolish,” he said, not unkindly. “Well intentioned, but not particularly well advised.”
Bek faced the Druid squarely, the set of his jaw revealing his attitude on the matter. “Ahren has nothing with which to protect himself. No magic of his own, Walker. He is my friend, and I don’t see anything wrong with giving him something that might help keep him alive.”
The dark face looked away. “You weren’t listening to me as closely as I hoped when I said that magic wasn’t necessarily the key to survival here. Instincts and courage and a clear head are what will keep us alive.”
Bek stood his ground. “Well, maybe having the phoenix stone will help him find those particular attributes. What’s bothering you, Walker?”
The Druid shook his head. “So many things I don’t know where to start. But in this case, your rashness gives me pause. Giving up magic entrusted to you by the King of the Silver River may cost you more than you realize. The magic of the phoenix stone wasn’t intended as a defense. The King of the Silver River would know, as I do, that you possess the magic of the wishsong. The stone is for something else, most likely something to do with your sister. Mark me well, Bek, and retrieve it as soon as you reasonably can. Promise me.”
Only partially convinced, the boy nodded without enthusiasm. Too much of what the Druid had told him during their travels was suspect. This was no exception. No one could know the future or what it would require of a man. Not a spirit creature. Not even a seer like Ryer Ord Star. The best anyone could do was reveal glimpses out of context, and those could deceive.
“Meanwhile,” Walker said, interrupting his thoughts, “I am giving you this to carry.”
He reached beneath his black robes and produced the Sword of Shannara. It was sheathed in a soft leather scabbard, but the carving of the fist and the raised torch on the pommel were unmistakable.
Bek took it from the Druid and held it out before him, staring at it. “Do you think I will need it?”
The Druid’s smile was unexpectedly bitter. “I think we will need whatever strengths we can call upon once we are off this airship. A talisman belongs in the hands of a bearer who can wield it. In the case of the Sword of Shannara, that bearer is you.”
Bek thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right, I’ll carry it. Not because I am afraid for myself, but because maybe I can be of some use to the others. That’s the reason I went with Truls Rohk into the ruins on Mephitic. That’s the reason I agreed to use the sword at the Squirm. I came on this journey because I believed what you told me the night we met—that I could do something to help. I still believe it. I’m a part of this company, even if I don’t know for sure yet what that part might be.”
Walker bent to him. “Each of us has a part to play and all of us are still discovering what that part is. None of us is superfluous. Everyone is necessary. You are right to look out for your friends.”
He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But remember that we can do little to look out for others if we forget to look out for ourselves. In the future, don’t be too quick to discount what might be required to do that. It isn’t always apparent beforehand. It isn’t always possible to anticipate what is needed.”
Bek had the distinct impression that Walker was talking about something besides the phoenix stone. But it was clear from his words that he had no intention of saying what it was. By now, the boy was used to veiled references and hidden meanings from the Druid, so he felt no real urgency to pursue the matter. Walker would tell him when he was ready and not before.
“Ahren and I made a pact to stick together,” he said instead. “So the phoenix stone won’t be far away. I can get it back from him anytime I choose.”
Walker straightened, a distant look in his dark eyes. “Time to be going, Bek.