The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [11]
The morning wore on toward midday. Caerid Lock did not reappear. Kinson paced for a time, then finally sat down next to Bremen, frustration mirrored on his lean face. He sat wrapped in silence, wearing his darkest look.
Bremen sighed inwardly. Kinson had been with him a long time. Bremen had handpicked him from among a number of candidates for the task of ferreting out the truth about the Warlock Lord. Kinson had been the right choice. He was the best Tracker the old man had ever known. He was smart and brave and clever.
He was never reckless, always reasoned. They had grown so close that Kinson was like a son to him. He was certainly his closest friend.
But he could not be the one thing Bremen needed him to be. He could not be the Druid’s successor. Bremen was old and failing, though he hid it well enough from those who might suspect. When he was gone, there would be no one left to continue his work.
There would be no one to advance the study of magic so necessary to the evolution of the Races, no one to prod the recalcitrant Druids of Paranor into reconsidering their involvement with the Four Lands, and no one to stand against the Warlock Lord. Once, he had hoped that Kinson Ravenlock might be that man. The Borderman might still be, he supposed, but it did not seem likely.
Kinson lacked the necessary patience. He disdained any pretense of diplomacy. He had no time for those who could not grasp truths he felt were obvious. Experience was the only teacher he had ever respected. He was an iconoclast and a persistent loner. None of these characteristics would serve him well as a Druid, but it seemed impossible that he could ever be any different from the way he was.
Bremen glanced over at his friend, suddenly unhappy with his analysis. It was not fair to judge Kinson so. It was enough that the Borderman was as devoted as he was, enough that he would stand with him to the death if it was required. Kinson was the best of friends and allies, and it was wrong to expect more of him.
It was just that his need for a successor was so desperate! He was old, and time was slipping away too quickly.
He took his eyes from Kinson and looked off into the distant trees as if to measure what little remained.
It was past midday when Caerid Lock finally reappeared. He stalked out of the shadows of the doorway with barely a glance at the guards or Kinson and came directly to Bremen. The Druid climbed to his feet to greet him, his joints and his muscles cramped.
“Athabasca will speak with you,” the Captain of the Druid Guard advised, grim-faced.
Bremen nodded. “You must have worked hard to persuade him. I am in your debt, Caerid.”
The Elf grunted noncommittally. “I would not be so sure. Athabasca has his own reasons for agreeing to this meeting, I think.“ He turned to Kinson. ”I am sorry, but I could not gain entrance for you.”
Kinson straightened and shrugged. “I will be happier waiting here, I expect.”
“I expect,” agreed the other. “I will send you out some food and fresh water. Bremen, are you ready?”
The Druid looked at Kinson and smiled faintly. “I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Good luck to you,” his friend offered quietly.
Then Bremen was following Caerid Lock through the entry of the Keep and into the shadows beyond.
They walked down cavernous hallways and winding, narrow corridors in cool, dark silence, their footsteps echoing off the heavy stone. They encountered no one. It was as if Paranor were deserted, and Bremen knew that was not so. Several times, he thought he caught a whisper