The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [10]
“Caerid, well met,” the Druid replied, accepting the other’s hand. “Are you well?”
“As well as some I know. You’ve aged a few years since leaving us. The lines are in your face.”
“You see the mirror of your own, I’d guess.”
“Perhaps. Still traveling the world, are you?”
“In the good company of my friend, Kinson Ravenlock,” he introduced the other.
The Elf took the Borderman’s hand and measure by equal turns, but said nothing. Kinson was equally remote.
“I need your help, Caerid,” Bremen advised, turning solemn. “I must speak with Athabasca and the Council.”
Athabasca was High Druid, an imposing man of firm belief and unyielding opinion who had never much cared for Bremen. He was a member of the Council when the old man was dismissed, though he was not yet High Druid. That had come later, and then only through the complex workings of internal politics that Bremen so hated. Still, Athabasca was leader, for better or worse, and any chance of success in breaching these walls would necessarily hinge on him.
Caerid Lock smiled ruefully. “Why not ask me for something difficult? You know that Paranor and the Council both are forbidden to you. You cannot even enter these walls, let alone speak with the High Druid.”
“I can if he orders it,” Bremen said simply.
The other nodded. Sharp eyes narrowed. “I see. You want me to speak to him on your behalf.”
Bremen nodded. Caerid’s tight smile disappeared. “He doesn’t like you,” he pointed out quietly. “That hasn’t changed in your absence.”
“He doesn’t have to like me to talk with me. What I have to tell him is more important than personal feelings. I will be brief. Once he has heard me out, I will be on my way again.” He paused. “I don’t think I am asking too much, do you?”
Caerid Lock shook his head. “No.” He glanced at Kinson. “I will do what I can.”
He went back inside, leaving the old man and the Borderman to contemplate the walls and gates of the Keep. Their warders stood firmly in place, barring all entry. Bremen regarded them solemnly for a moment, then glanced toward the sun. The day was beginning to grow warm already. He looked at Kinson, then walked over to where the shadows provided a greater measure of shade and sat down on a stone outcropping. Kinson followed, but refused to sit. There was an impatient look in his dark eyes. He wanted this matter to be finished. He was ready to move on.
Bremen smiled inwardly. How like his friend. Kinson’s solution to everything was to move on. He had lived his whole life that way. It was only now, since they had met, that he had begun to see that nothing is ever solved if it isn’t faced. It wasn’t that Kinson wasn’t capable of standing up to life. He simply dealt with unpleasantness by leaving it behind, by outdistancing it, and it was true that things could be handled that way. It was just that there was never any permanent resolution.
Yes, Kinson had grown since those early days. He was a stronger man in ways that could not be readily measured. But Bremen knew that old habits died hard, and for Kinson Ravenlock the urge to walk away from the unpleasant and the difficult was always there.
“This is a waste of our time,” the Borderman muttered, as if to give credence to his thoughts.
“Patience, Kinson,” Bremen counseled softly.
“Patience? Why? They won’t let you in. And if they do, they won’t listen to you. They don’t want to hear what you have to say. These are not the Druids of old, Bremen.”
Bremen nodded. Kinson was right in that.