The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [189]
Bremen did not move, holding his gaze, saying nothing. Then he rose, walked to the map table, picked up the canvas-wrapped bundle, and handed it to the king. “This belongs now to you. Open it.”
Jerle Shannara did so, untying the cords that bound the canvas, stripping the wrapping carefully away. When he was finished, he held in his hands a sword and sheath. The sword was of unusual length and size, but light and perfectly formed. The hilt was engraved at the guard with the image of a hand holding forth a burning torch. The king slid free the sword from its sheath, marveling at the smooth, flawless surface of the blade, at the feel of it in his hand — as if it belonged there, as if it really was meant for him. He studied it for a moment in silence. The flame from the torch climbed toward the tip of the blade, and in the dimness of the study he could almost imagine that it flickered with a light of its own. He held the sword out before him, testing its heft and balance. The metal glittered in the lamplight, alive and seeking.
The king looked at Bremen and nodded slowly. “This is a wondrous blade,” he said softly.
‘There is more to it than what you perceive, Jerle Shannara — and less,“ replied the old man quickly. ”So listen carefully to what I tell you. This information is for you alone. Only Preia is to know otherwise,’ and only if you deem it essential. Much could depend on this. I must have your word.”
The king hesitated, glanced at the sword, and then nodded.
“You have it.”
The Druid came to him. He stood very close and kept his voice low. “By accepting this sword, you make it your own. But you must know its history and its purpose if it is to serve you well. Its history first, then.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The sword was forged by the finest smith in the Southland from a formula come out of the old world. It was tempered by heat and magic. It was constructed of an alloy that renders it both light and strong. It will not shatter in battle, whether struck by iron or magic. It will survive any test to which it is put. It is imbued with Druid magic. It holds within its metal span the power of all the Druids who ever were, those who came together at Paranor over the years and then passed from this world to the next. After it was forged, I carried it to the Hadeshorn and summoned their spirits from the netherworld. All appeared, and one by one they passed before me and touched this blade. When the blade was forged, the Eilt Drum, the medallion of office of the High Druids, the symbol of their power, was set within the pommel. You have seen it for yourself. A hand holding forth a burning torch. It was this that the spirits of the dead came to witness and to imbue with the last of their earthly power, all that they could carry with them beyond this life.
“All of which brings us to the sword’s purpose. It is a finely crafted blade, a weapon of great strength and durability — but that alone is not enough to render it capable of destroying the Warlock Lord. The sword is not meant to be used as other weapons. It can be; most certainly it shall. But it was not forged for the sharpness of its blade or the toughness of its metal, but for the power of the magic which resides within it. That magic, Elven King, is what will give you victory when you face the creature Brona.”
He took a deep breath, as if talking of this exhausted him. His seamed face was weary and pale in the failing light. “The power of this sword, Jerle Shannara, is truth. Truth, plain and simple. Truth, whole and unblemished. Truth, with all deceptions and lies and facades stripped away so that the one against whom the magic of the sword is directed stands fully revealed. It is a powerful weapon, one which Brona cannot stand against, for he is cloaked by these same deceptions and lies and facades, by shadings and concealments, and these are the trappings of his power. He survives by keeping the truth about himself at bay. Force him to confront that truth, and he is doomed.
“I did not understand