The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [146]
“You are most certainly better informed on the matter than I,” admitted Shea, choosing his words carefully. “Being from the Southland, and having traveled little outside of its borders, I am unfamiliar with all life in this region of the world. I owe you both my life, and my thanks go to Keltset as well.”
The dashing stranger smiled happily at the expression of gratitude, obviously pleased at the unexpected compliment.
“No thanks are necessary; I told you that,” he replied. “Come over here and sit with me for a moment while we wait for Keltset to finish his task. We must talk more about what brought you to this part of the country. It’s very dangerous in these parts, you know, especially traveling alone.”
He led the way over to the nearest tree where he sat down wearily, resting his back against the slender trunk. He still held the pouch with the Elfstones in his one good hand, and Shea did not feel that he should bring that subject up just yet. Hopefully, the stranger would ask if they belonged to him, and he could recover them and be on his way to Paranor. The others in the company would be looking for him by now, either along the eastern edge of the Dragon’s Teeth or farther up near Paranor.
“Why is Keltset searching those Gnomes?” the youth asked after a moment’s silence.
“Well, there might be some indication of where they are from, where they were going. They might have some food, which we could use right now. Who knows, they might even have something valuable...?”
He trailed off sharply and looked questioningly at Shea, one hand balancing the leather pouch with the Elfstones before the Valeman’s eyes, holding it like bait before the hunted animal. Shea swallowed hard and hesitated, realizing suddenly the man had sensed all along that the stones belonged to him. He had to do something quickly, or he would give himself away.
“They belong to me. The pouch and the stones are mine.”
“Are they now?” Panamon Creel grinned wolfishly at the youth. “I don’t see your name on the pouch. How did you come by them?”
“They were given to me by my father,” Shea lied quickly. “I’ve had them for years. I carry them everywhere — a sort of good-luck piece. When the Gnomes captured me, they searched me and took the pouch and the stones away. But they are mine.”
The scarlet-clad rescuer smiled faintly and opened the pouch, pouring the stones into his open palm, holding the pouch with the wicked-looking pike. He hefted them and held them up to the light, admiring their brilliant blue glow. Then he turned back to Shea, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
“What you say may be true, but it may be that you stole them. They look rather valuable to be carrying around as a good-luck charm. I think I should keep them until I am satisfied that you are the true owner.”
“But I have to go — I have to meet my friends,” Shea sputtered desperately. “I can’t stay with you until you’re certain I own the stones!”
Panamon Creel rose slowly to his feet and smiled down, tucking the pouch and its contents into his tunic.
“That should pose no problem. Just tell me where I can reach you, and I’ll bring the stones to you there after I’ve checked out your story. I’ll be down in the Southland in several months or so.”
Shea was absolutely beside himself with anger, and he leaped to his feet in a rage.
“Why, you’re nothing but a thief, a common highwayman!” he stormed, bracing the other defiantly.
Panamon Creel erupted suddenly into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, holding his sides in mirth. He finally regained control of himself, shaking his head in disbelief as the tears rolled down his broad face. Shea looked on in astonishment,