The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [205]
Losing himself for a moment in the peace and solitude of the ancient building, the highlander recalled in brief flashes the faces of the divided company of friends, wondering sadly what had befallen them since Paranor. Perhaps they would never again be together as they had been during those fearful days on the road to the Druids’ Keep, but he would never forget their courage and sacrifice and the pride he felt now in recalling the dangers they had faced and overcome. Even the reluctant Flick had displayed a bravery and steadfastness that Menion would not have expected from him.
And what of Shea, his oldest friend? He shook his head as he thought about his missing companion. He missed the Valeman’s peculiar mixture of hardheaded practicality and antiquated beliefs. Somehow Shea could not seem to see the change in times even when the sun moved from east to west in the sky above. He did not seem to realize that the land and the people were growing, expanding once more — that the wars of the past were slowly being forgotten. Shea believed that one could turn his back on the past and build a new world with the future, never understanding that the future was inextricably tied to the past, an interwoven tapestry of events and ideas that would never be entirely severed. In his own small way, the little Valeman was a part of the passing age, his convictions a reminder of yesterday rather than a promise of tomorrow. How strange, how incredibly strange it all seemed, Menion thought suddenly, standing in the center of the hall, motionless, his gaze lost in the depths of the weathered stone wall. Shea and the Sword of Shannara — things of an age slowly dying; yet they were the hope of the hour to come. They were the key to life.
The heavy wooden doors to the council hall opened behind the highlander, and his thoughts faded with Shirl’s soft voice. She seemed small and vulnerable as she waited beneath the massive beams of the high entryway, her face beautiful and anxious. No wonder Palance Buckhannah wanted this woman for his wife. Menion moved toward her, taking her warm hand in his own, and they entered the council chamber. He noted the ancient austerity of the massive chamber as he moved into the gray light that seemed to slide in tired streaks through the high, iron-webbed windows. The council hall was old and proud, a cornerstone of the island city. Twenty men were seated around a long, burnished wood table, their faces strangely similar as they waited for the highlander to speak — all aged, wise perhaps, and determined. The eyes betrayed the unspoken fear that lingered beneath the calm exteriors — a fear for their city and their people. They knew what the Northland army would do when the rains ceased and the waters of the Mermidon receded in the heat of the open sun. He stopped before them, the girl still next to him, his footfalls dying away into the expectant silence.
He chose his words carefully, describing the massive enemy force that had been assembled under the leadership of the Warlock Lord. He related in part the story of his long journey to Callahorn, speaking of Balinor and the men of the company formed at Culhaven who were now scattered throughout the four lands. He did not tell them about the Sword or about Shea’s mysterious origin or even about Allanon. There was no reason for the elders of this council to know anything beyond the fact that the city of Kern stood in danger of being overrun. As he finished, calling upon them to save their people while there was still time, to evacuate the city immediately before all hope of retreat was cut off, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He had risked a great deal more than his own life to warn these people.