The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [155]
There were tears in Mareth’s eyes. “My father?”
Bremen nodded slowly. “It would explain the magic born to you. Innate magic, the dark gift bequeathed you by your father. Not a Druid’s gift, but the gift of a creature for whom magic has become lifeblood. It is so, Mareth. It is hard to accept, I know, but it is so.”
“Yes,” she whispered, speaking so low that he could barely hear her. “I was so sure.”
Her head lowered, and she began to cry. Her hands clenched his, and the magic died away, fading with the anger and tension, curling into a hard knot deep within.
Bremen shifted closer, putting his thin arm around her shoulders. “One thing more, child,” he told her softly. “I would be your father still, if you would have me. I would be as much a parent to you as if you were my own. I think much of you. I would give you what advice I could in your struggle to comprehend the nature of your magic. The first thing I would tell you is that you are not your father. You are nothing like him, dark thing that he was, not even in your birthright. The magic is your own. You have its power to bear, and that is a heavy weight. But though the magic was given to you by your father, it does not define your character or dictate the nature of your heart. You are a good and strong person, Mareth. You are nothing of the dark creature who spawned you.”
Mareth’s head moved against his shoulder. “You cannot know. I may be exactly that.”
“No,” he soothed. “No. You are nothing of him, child. Nothing.”
He stroked her dark hair and held her to him, letting her cry, letting the pain of so many years leak away. She would be empty and numb when it was gone, and she must be given hope and purpose to fill her anew.
He thought now that he had a way to give her that.
Two full days passed before Kinson Ravenlock returned.
He walked from the valley at sunset, striding out of the raw orange light generated by the smoke and fire of Dechtera’s great furnaces. He was eager to reach them, to give them his news, and he tossed off his dusty cloak with a flourish and embraced them both enthusiastically.
“I have found the man we want,” he announced, dropping down cross-legged in the grass and accepting the aleskin Mareth passed him. “The very man, in my opinion.” His smile broadened, and he gave them both a quick shrug. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t agree with me. Someone will have to persuade him I’m right. That’s why I’ve come back for you.”
Bremen nodded and motioned to the aleskin. “Drink, have something to eat, and then tell us all about it.”
Kinson put the aleskin to his mouth and tipped his head back.
West, the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and the quality and color of the light were changing rapidly as twilight descended. In the wake of its quicksilver transition, Kinson caught a glimmer of something dark and worrisome in the old man’s eyes. Without speaking, he glanced at Mareth. She met his gaze boldly.
The Borderman lowered the aleskin and regarded them solemnly. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
There was a moment of silence. “We told stories to each other,”
Bremen answered. His smile was melancholy. He looked at Mareth and then back again at Kinson. “Would you like to hear one of them?”
Kinson nodded thoughtfully. “If you think there is time.”
Bremen reached for Mareth’s hand, and the girl gave it to him.
There were tears in her eyes. “I think we should make time for this one,” the old man said.
And Kinson knew from the way he said it that he was right.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Urprox Screl sat alone on the old wooden bench, hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, carving knife in one hand, block of wood in the other. His hands moved deftly as he worked, turning the wood this way and that, whittling with small