Northland, a son of the House of Shannara would come forth to take up the Sword against him. That was the legend!»
Shea looked over at his brother, remembering then what the inscription was supposed to read. He looked back at Allanon, who was watching him intently.
«How does this concern me?» he asked quickly. «I’m not a son of the House of Shannara — I’m not even Elven. I’m a half–blood, not an Elf, not a king. Eventine is the heir to the House of Shannara. Are you telling me that I’m a lost son — a missing heir? I don’t believe it!»
He looked quickly to Flick for support, but his brother appeared to be completely lost, staring in bewilderment at the face of Allanon. The dark man spoke quietly.
«You do have Elven blood in you, Shea, and you are not the true son of Curzad Ohmsford. That you must know. And Eventine is not directly of the blood of Shannara.»
«I have always known that I was an adopted son,” the Valeman admitted, «but surely I could not have come from… Flick, tell him!»
But his brother just stared at him in astonishment, unable to frame an answer to the question. Shea stopped speaking abruptly, shaking his head in disbelief. Allanon nodded.
«You are a son of the House of Shannara — a half son only, however, and far removed from the direct line of descent that can be traced down through the last five hundred years. I knew you as a child, Shea, before you were taken into the Ohmsford household as their own son. Your father was Elven — a very fine man. Your mother was of the race of Man. They both died when you were still very young, and you were given to Curzad Ohmsford to raise as his own son. But you are a son of Jerle Shannara, albeit a distant son and not of pure Elven blood.»
Shea nodded absently at the tall man’s explanation, confused and still suspicious. Flick was looking at his brother. as if he had never seen him before.
«What does all this mean?» he asked Allanon eagerly.
«What I have told you is known also to the Lord of Darkness, though he does not yet know where you live or who you are. But his emissaries will find you sooner or later, and when they do, you will be destroyed.»
Shea’s head jerked up, and he looked at Flick fearfully, remembering the tale of the huge shadow seen near the lip of the Vale. His brother, too, felt a sudden chill, recalling that awful feeling of terror.
«But why?» asked Shea quickly. «What have I done to deserve, that?»
«You must understand many things, Shea, before you can understand the answer to that question,” replied Allanon, «and I have not the time to explain them all now. You must believe me when I tell you that you are descended from Jerle Shannara, that you are of Elven blood, and that the Ohmsfords are a foster family to you. You were not the only son of the House of Shannara, but you are the only son who survives today. The others were Elven, and they were easily found and destroyed. That is what prevented the Dark Lord from finding you for so long — he was unaware that there was a half sort alive in the Southland. The Elven kin he knew of from the first.
«But know this, Shea. The power of the Sword is unlimited — it is the one great fear with which Brona lives, the one power he may not withstand. The legend of the Sword is a powerful amulet in the hands of the races, and Brona means to put an end to the legend. He will do this by destroying the entire house of Shannara, so that no son will come forth to draw the Sword against him.»
«But I did not even know of the Sword,” protested Shea. «I did not even know who I was, or anything about the Northland or about …»
«It does not matter!» cut in Allanon sharply. «If you are dead, there can be no doubt about you.»
His voice died away in a weary murmur, and he turned to look again at the distant mountaintops beyond the fringe of tall elms. Shea lay back slowly on the soft grass, staring at the pale blue of the late winter sky laced with small, soft wisps of white cloud that drifted from the tall hills. For a few pleasant moments the presence of Allanon and the threat of death were submerged in the sleepy warmth of the afternoon sun and the fresh smell of the lofty, trees towering over him. He closed his eyes and thought of his life in the Vale, of the plans that he had made with Flick, of their hopes for the future. They would all go up in smoke if what he had been told were true. He lay quietly considering these things, and finally sat up, his arms braced behind him.
«I’m not sure what to think,” he began slowly. «There are so many questions I have to ask you. I feel confused by the whole idea of being someone other than an Ohmsford — someone threatened with death at the hands of a… a myth. What do you suggest that I do?»
Allanon smiled warmly for the first time.
«For the moment, do nothing. There is no immediate danger to you. Think about what I have told you and we will speak further of the implications another time. I shall be glad to answer all your questions then. But do not talk about this to anyone else, not even your father. Act as if this conversation had never taken place until we have a chance to work out the problems further.»
The young men looked at each other and nodded in agreement, though it would be difficult to pretend that nothing had happened. Allanon rose silently, stretching his tall frame to relieve cramped muscles. The brothers rose with him and stood quietly as he looked down at them.
«Legends and myths that did not exist in yesterday’s world will exist in tomorrow’s. Things of evil, ruthless and cunning, after lying dormant for centuries, will now awaken. The shadow of the Warlock Lord begins to fall across the four lands.»
He trailed off abruptly.
«I did not mean to be harsh with you,” he smiled gently, quite unexpectedly, «but if this is the worst thing that happens in the days to come, you should be glad indeed. You are faced with a very real threat, not a fairy tale that can be laughed away. Nothing about any of this will be fair to you. You will learn much about life that you will not like.»
He paused, a tall gray shadow against the green of the distant hills, his robes gathered carefully about his gaunt frame. One great hand reached over to grip firmly Sheds lean shoulder, and for an instant bound them together as one person. Then he turned away and was gone.
Chapter Three
Allanon’s plan for further discussions at the inn did not work out. He left the brothers sitting in hushed conversation behind the inn and returned to his room. Shea and Flick finally went back to their chores and shortly thereafter were dispatched on an errand by their father that took them out of the Vale to the north end of the valley. It was dark by the time they returned, and they hastened to the dining room, hoping to question the historian further, but he did not appear. They ate dinner hurriedly, unable to speak to each other about the afternoon while their father was present. After eating, they waited almost an hour, but still he did not appear and eventually, long after their father had departed for the kitchen, they decided to go to Allanon’s room. Flick was reluctant to go looking for the dark stranger, especially after his meeting with him on the Vale road the previous night. But Shea was so insistent that at last his brother agreed to go along, hoping that there might be safety in numbers.
When they reached his room, they found the door unlocked and the tall wanderer gone. The room looked as if no one had even used it recently. They made a hasty search of the inn and the surrounding premises, but Allanon was not to be found. At last they were forced to conclude that for some unknown reason he had departed from Shady Vale. Shea was openly angered that Allanon had left without even a parting word, yet at the same time he began to experience a growing apprehension that he was no longer under the historian’s protective wing. Flick, on the other hand, was just as happy that the man was gone. As he sat with Shea in the tall, hard–backed chairs before the fire in the big lounge room of the inn, he tried to assure his brother that everything was working out for the best. He had never completely believe the historian’s wild tale of the Northland wars and the Sword of Shannara, he argued, and even if some of it were true, certainly the part about Shea’s lineage and the threat from Brona was completely exaggerated — a ridiculous fairy tale.
Shea listened in silence to Flick’s muddled rationalization of the possibilities, offering only an occasional nod of acquiescence, his own thoughts concentrated on deciding what he should do next. He had serious doubts about the credibility of Allanon’s tale, After all, what purpose did the historian have in coming to him in the first place? He had appeared conveniently, it seemed, to tell Shea about his strange background, and to warn him that he was in
