The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [235]
Help me, he prayed to no one, for he was all alone.
The light filled him anew, and again the world of mist and shadows receded. He went back down inside himself, and this time he was brought face-to-face with the truth of his own life.
With inexorable purpose it unfolded before him, image by image, a vast collage of experiences and events. But the images were not of the things he wished to see; they were of those he wished forgotten, of those he had buried in his past. There was nothing of himself of which he was proud, with which he had ever hoped to be confronted. Lies, half truths, and deceptions rose like ghosts at haunt. Here was the real Jerle Shannara, the creature who was flawed and imperfect, weak and insecure, insensitive and filled with false pride. He saw the worst of what he had done in his life.
He saw the ways in which he had disappointed others, had ignored their needs, had left them in pain. So many times he had failed to do what was needed. So many times he had misjudged.
He tried to look away. He tried to make the images stop. He would have run from what he was being shown if he could have fteed himself from the Sword’s magic to do so. These were truths that he could not face, their harshness so intense that they threatened his sanity. He might have cried out in despair — he could not tell. He realized in that moment the terrible power of truth, and he saw why Bremen had been so concerned for him. He did not have the strength for this; he did not have the resolve. The Druid had been wrong to come to him. The Sword of Shannara was not meant for him. Choosing him to bear it had been wrong.
Yet he did not give way entirely before what he was shown, even wheir it touched on Tay Trefenwyd and Preia Starle, even when it revealed the depth of their friendship. He forced himself to watch it, to accept it, and to forgive himself for the jealousy it aroused in turn, and he felt himself grow stronger by doing so. He found himself thinking that perhaps this was indeed a weapon that could be used against the Warlock Lord, a creature whose entire being was founded on illusion. What price would the magic exact from Brona when he was forced to discover that he was composed of little more than men’s fears, a mirage that could vanish with a simple change in the light? Perhaps this creature was so badly formed that nothing of its humanity, of its flesh and blood, of its emotion and reason remained. Perhaps truth was anathema to it.
The images faded and the light died. Jerle Shannara watched the air before him clear and the dark form of the Warlock Lord materialize once more. How long had the magic taken to reveal itself to him? How long had he stood there, transfixed? The cloaked form advanced now, a steady, relentless closing of the space between them. The Warlock Lord’s voice hissed with anticipation. Wave upon wave of nausea struck at the Elf King, hammering at the firmness of his purpose, breaking past his physical strength to drain the courage from his heart.
Come to me. Come to me.
Jerle Shannara saw himself as nothing, as helpless before the monster he confronted. So vast and terrible was the Warlock Lord’s power that no man could prevail against it. So immutable was that power that no magic could overcome it. The voice whispered the words insistently.
Put down the sword. Come to me. You are nothing. Come to me.
But the Elf King had already seen himself reduced to his essence, had witnessed the worst of what he was, and even the terrible despair that ripped through him as the Warlock Lord approached was not enough to turn him aside. Truth did not frighten him now. He lifted the Sword before him, a bright silver thread within the gloom, and cried out, “Shannara! Shannara!”
Down came the Sword, smashing through the Warlock Lord’s defenses, shattering his magic, and penetrating to the cloakrtd form beyond. The Warlock Lord shuddered, desperately