The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [123]
As they traveled, Bremen walked with Mareth, speaking about her magic and counseling on its use.
“There are ways in which you can control it,” he offered. “The difficulty lies in identifying the ways. Innate magic is more complicated than acquired magic. With acquired magic, you learn its usage through trial and error, building on your knowledge as you go. You discover what works and what doesn’t; it is predictable, and usually you come to understand the why of things. But with innate magic, that isn’t always possible. Innate magic is simply there, born to you, a part of your flesh and blood. It does what it will, when it will, often how it will, and you are left to discover the why of things as best you can.
“The problem of controlling innate magic is further complicated by other factors which influence the way magic works. Your character can affect the results of the magic’s implementation. Your emotions, your mood. The makeup of your body — you have built-in defenses to anything that threatens your health, and these can affect the way the magic responds. Your view of the world, Mareth, your attitude, your beliefs, your reasoning — they can all determine results. The magic is a chameleon. Sometimes it simply gives up and goes away, will not try to breach your defenses or the obstacles you place in its path. Sometimes it mounts a rush to overcome them, to break through and work its will in spite of all you do to stop it.”
“What is it that so affects me?” she asked him.
And he replied, ‘That is what we have to discover.”
On the sixth day of their journey, they reached Hearthstone. It was just after midday, and they had come down out of a range of broad, steep hills and rugged valleys that heralded the approach of the Ravenshorn Mountains. They were hot and footsore, and having left the Rabb and its tributaries far behind, they had not bathed in two days. No one was doing much talking this day; they were concentrating all their energies on reaching their destination before nightfall, as Kinson had promised they would. Despite the fearsome reputation of Darklin Reach, nothing had threatened them on their journey and, if anything, they were growing bored with the tedium of their travel. So it was a relief to catch sight of the solitary, chimney-shaped spire that jutted skyward in the bright sunlight that lit the far end of the small valley directly before them. They emerged from a stretch of spruce and hemlock where the shadows were so thick they had to grope their way clear, and there it was. Kinson pointed, but Bremen and Mareth were already nodding and smiling in recognition.
They went down off the hills through patches of wildflowers to the cool shadow of the woods that filled the valley floor. It was silent as they passed through towering stands of hardwoods — red elm, white and black oak, shagbark hickory, and birch. Conifers grew there as well, shaggy, hoary, and ancient, but the hardwoods dominated. Hemmed in by a canopy of limbs and a wall of trunks, they quickly lost sight of Hearthstone. Kinson led, still looking for tracks, still not finding any, but now wondering why. If Cogline lived in the valley, didn’t he ever walk around in it? There were no signs of human habitation. There were birds and small ground animals, but not much of anything else.
They crossed a stream, a spray of cold mist washing over them from where the waters tumbled down a rapids. Kinson brushed at his face, closed his eyes against the coolness, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He blinked away the damp as he walked, listening to the silence, glancing back at Bremen and Mareth, who followed a few steps behind. He felt a twinge of uneasiness, but he couldn’t identify its source. His Tracker’s instincts told him something was wrong, but neither of his companions seemed