The Voyage of the Jerle Shannara Trilogy

  He went down to the Captain’s quarters and slipped through the doorway. Quentin Leah lay asleep in his bed, his breathing deep and even, his face turned away from the single candle that burned nearby. The windows were shuttered and curtained so that no light or sound could escape, and the air in the room was close and stale. Bek wanted to blow out the candle and open the shutters, but he knew that would be unwise.

  Instead, he walked over to his sister. She was lying on her pallet with her knees drawn up and her eyes open and staring. She wore her dark robe, but a light blanket had been laid over her, as well. Rue had brushed her hair earlier that day, and the dark strands glimmered in the candlelight like threads of silk. Her fingers were knotted together, and her mouth was twisted with what might have been a response to a deep-seated regret or troublesome dream.

  Bek raised her to a sitting position, placed her against the bulkhead, and seated himself across from her. He stared at her without doing anything more, trying to think through what he knew, trying to decide what to do next. He had to break down the protective shell in which she had sealed herself, but to do that he had to know what she was protecting herself from.

  He tried to envision it and failed. On the surface, she looked to be barely more than a child, but beneath she was iron hard and remorseless. That didn’t just disappear, even after a confrontation with the truth-inducing magic of the Sword of Shannara. Besides, what single act set itself apart from any other? What monstrous wrong could she not bring herself to face after perpetrating so many?

  He sat staring at her much in the same way that she was staring at him, neither of them really seeing the other, both of them off in other places. Bek shifted his thinking to Grianne’s early years, when she was first taken from her home and placed in the hands of the Morgawr. Could something have happened then, as Rue had suggested, something so awful she could not forgive herself for it? Was there something he didn’t know about and would have to guess at?

  Suddenly, it occurred to him that he might be thinking about this in the wrong way. Maybe it wasn’t something she had done, but something she had failed to do. Maybe it wasn’t an act, but an omission that haunted her. It was just as possible that what she couldn’t forgive herself for was something she believed she should have done and hadn’t.

  He repeated to himself what she said when she woke on the night she had saved Quentin’s life—about how Bek shouldn’t cry, how she was there for him, how she would look after him again, his big sister.

  But she had said something else, too. She had said she would never leave him again, that she was sorry for doing so. She had cried and repeated several times, “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

  He thought he saw it then, the failure for which she had never been able to forgive herself. A child of only six, she had hidden him in the basement, choosing to try to save his life over those of her parents. She had concealed him in the cellar, listening to her parents die as she did so. She had left him there and set out to find help, but she had never gotten beyond her own yard. She had been kidnapped and whisked away, then deceived so that she would think he was dead, too.

  She had never gone back for him, never returned to find out if what she had been told was the truth. At first, it hadn’t mattered, because she was in the thrall of the Morgawr and certain of his explanation of her rescue. But over the years, her certainty had gradually eroded, until slowly she had begun to doubt. It was why she had been so intrigued by Bek’s story about who he was when they had encountered each other for the first time in the forest that night after the attack in the ruins. It was why she hadn’t killed him when she almost certainly would have otherwise. His words and his looks and his magic disturbed her. She was troubled by the possibility that he might be who he said he was and that everything she had believed about him was wrong.

  Which would mean that she had left him to die when she should have gone back to save him.

  It was a failure for which he would never blame her, but for which she might well blame herself. She had failed her parents and then failed him, as well. She had thrown away her life for a handful of lies and a misplaced need for vengeance.

  He was so startled by the idea that it could be something as simple as this that for a moment he could not believe it was possible. Or that it could be something so impossibly wrongheaded. But she did not think as he did, or even as others did. She had come through the scouring magic of the Sword of Shannara to be reborn into the world, tempered by fire he could barely imagine, by truths so vast and inexorable that they would destroy a weaker person. She had survived because of who she was, but had become more damaged, too.

  What should he do?

  He was frightened that he might be wrong, and if he was, he had no idea of where else to look. But fear had no place in what was needed, and he had no patience with its weakness. He had to try using his new insight to break down her defenses. He had to find out if he was right.

  His choices were simple. He could call on the magic of the wishsong or he could speak to her in his normal voice. He chose the latter. He moved closer to her, putting his face right in front of hers, his hands clasped loosely about her slender neck, tangling in her thick, dark hair.

  “Listen to me,” he whispered to her. “Grianne, listen to what I have to say to you. You can hear me. You can hear every word. I love you, Grianne. I never stopped loving you, not once, not even after I found out who you were. It isn’t your fault, what was done to you. You can come home, now. You can come home to me. That’s where your home is—with me. Your brother, Bek.”

  He waited a moment, searching her empty eyes. “You hid me from the Morgawr and his Mwellrets, Grianne, even without knowing who they were. You saved my life. I know you wanted to come back for me, that you wanted to bring help for me and for our parents. But you couldn’t do that. There wasn’t any way for you to return. There wasn’t enough time, even if the Morgawr hadn’t tricked you. But even though you couldn’t come back, you saved me. Just by hiding me so that Truls Rohk could find me and take me to Walker, you saved me. I’m alive because of you.”

  He paused. Had he felt her shiver? “Grianne, I forgive you for leaving me, for not coming back, for not discovering that I was still alive. I forgive you for all of that, for everything you might have done and failed to do. You have to forgive yourself, as well. You have to stop hiding from what happened all those years ago. It isn’t a truth that needs hiding from. It is a truth that needs facing up to. I need you back with me, not somewhere far away. By hiding from me, you are leaving me again. Don’t do that, Grianne. Don’t go away again. Come back to me as you promised you would.”

  She was trembling suddenly, but her gaze remained fixed and staring, her eyes as blank as forest lakes at night. He kept holding her, waiting for her to do something more. Keep talking, he told himself. This is the way to reach her.

  Instead, he began to sing, calling up the magic of the wishsong almost without realizing he was doing so, singing now the words he had only spoken before. It was an impulsive act, an instinctive response to his need to connect with her. He was so close, right on the verge of breaking through. He could feel the shell in which she had encased herself beginning to crack. She was there, right inside, desperate to reach him.

  So he turned to the language they both understood best, the language peculiar to them alone. The music flowed out of him, infused with his magic, sweet and soft and filled with yearning. He gave himself over to it in the way that music requires, lost in its rhythm, in its flow, in its transcendence of the here and now. He took himself away from where he was and took her with him, back in time to a life he had barely known and she had forgotten, back to a world they had both lost. He sang of it as he would have wanted it to be, all the while telling her he forgave her for leaving that world, for abandoning him, for losing herself in a labyrinth of treacheries and lies and hatred and monstrous acts from which it might seem there could be no redemption. He sang of it as a way of healing, so that she might
find in the words and music the balm she required to accept the harshness of the truth about her life and know that as bad as it was, it was nevertheless all right, that forgiveness came to everyone.

  He had no idea how long he sang, only that he did so without thinking of what he was attempting or even of what was needed. He sang because the music gave him a release for his own confused, tangled emotions. Yet the effect was the same. He was aware of her small shivers turning to trembles, of her head snapping up and her eyes beginning to focus, of a sound rising from her throat that approached a primal howl. He could sense the walls she had constructed crumble and feel her world shift.

  Then she seized him in such a powerful embrace it did not seem possible that a girl so slender could manage it. She pressed him against her so hard that he could barely breathe, crying softly into his shoulder and saying, “It’s all right, Bek, I’m here for you, I’m here.”

  He stopped singing then and hugged her back, and in the ensuing silence he closed his eyes and mouthed a single word.

  Stay.

  She had been hiding in the darkest place she could find, but in the blackness that surrounded her were the things that hunted her. She did not know what they were, but she knew she must not look at them too closely. They were dangerous, and if they caught even the smallest glimpse of her eyes, they would fall on her like wolves. So she stayed perfectly still and did not look at them, hoping they would go away.

  But they refused to leave, and she found herself trapped with no chance to escape. She was six years old, and in her mind she saw the things in the darkness as black-cloaked monsters. They had pursued her for a long time, tracking her with such persistence that she knew they would never stop. She thought that if she could manage to get past them and find her way home to her parents and brother, she would be safe again. But they would not let her go.

  She could remember her home clearly. She could see its rooms and halls in her mind. It hadn’t been very large, but it had felt warm and safe. Her parents had loved and cared for her, and her little brother had depended on her to look after him. But she had failed them all. She had run away from them, fled her home because the black things were coming for her and she knew that if she stayed, she would die. Her flight was swift and mindless, and it took her away from everything she knew—here, to this place of empty blackness where she knew nothing.

  Now and again, she would hear her brother calling to her from a long way off. She recognized Bek’s voice, even though it was a grown-up’s voice and she knew he was only two years old and should not be able to speak more than a few words. Sometimes, he sang to her, songs of childhood and home. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him where she was, but she was afraid. If she spoke even one word, made even a single sound, the things in the darkness would know where she was and come for her.

  She had no sense of time or place. She had no sense of the world beyond where she hid. Everything real was gone, and only her memories remained. She clung to them like threads of gold, shining bright and precious in the dark.

  Once, Bek managed to find her, breaking through the darkness with tears that washed away her hunters. A path opened for her, created out of his need, a need so strong that not even the black things could withstand it. She took the path out of her hiding place and found him again, his heart breaking as he watched his little dog lying injured beside him. She told him she was back, that she would not leave him again, and she used her magic to heal his puppy. But the black things were still waiting for her, and when she felt his need for her begin to wane and the path it had opened begin to close, she was forced to flee back into her hiding place. Without his need to sustain her with its healing power, she could not stay.

  So she hid once more. The path she had taken to him was closed and gone, and she did not know what she could do to open it again. Bek must open it, she believed. He had done so once; he must do so again. But Bek was only a baby, and he didn’t understand what had happened to her. He didn’t realize why she was hiding and how dangerous the black things were. He didn’t know that she was trapped and that he was the only one who could free her.

  “But when you told me you forgave me for leaving you, I felt everything begin to change,” she told him. “When you told me how much you needed me, how by not coming back to you I was leaving you again, I felt the darkness begin to recede and the black things—the truths I couldn’t bear to face—begin to fade. I heard you singing, and I felt the magic break through and wrap me like a soft blanket. I thought that if you could forgive me, after how I had failed you, then I could face what I had done beyond that, all of it, every bad thing.”

  They were sitting in the darkness where this had all begun, tucked away in a corner of Redden Alt Mer’s Captain’s quarters, whispering so as not to wake the sleeping Quentin Leah. Shadows draped their faces and masked some of what their eyes would have otherwise revealed, but Bek knew what his sister was thinking. She was thinking he had known what he was doing when he found a way to reach her through the magic of the wishsong. Yet it was mostly chance that he had done so. Or perhaps perseverance, if he was to be charitable about it. He had thought it would take forgiveness to bring her awake. He had been wrong. It had taken her sensing the depth of his need.

  “I just wanted to give you a chance to be yourself again,” he said. “I didn’t want you to stay locked away inside, whatever the consequences of coming out might be.”

  “They won’t be good ones, Bek,” she told him, reaching over to touch his cheek. “They might be very bad.” She was quiet for a moment, staring at him. “I can’t believe I’ve really found you again.”

  “I can’t believe it either. But then I can’t believe hardly anything of what’s happened. Especially to me. I’m not so different from you. Everything I thought true about myself was a lie, too.”

  She smiled, but there was a hint of bitterness and reproach. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You’re nothing like me, save that you didn’t know you were an Ohmsford. You haven’t done the things that I’ve done. You haven’t lived my life. Be grateful for that. You can look back on your life and not regret it. I will never be able to do that. I’ll regret my life for as long as I live. I’ll want to change it every day, and I won’t be able to do that. All of the things I’ve done as the Ilse Witch will be with me forever.”

  She gave him a long, hard look. “I love you, and I know you love me, too. That gives me hope, Bek. That gives me the strength I need to try to make something good come out of all the bad.”

  “Do you remember everything that happened now?” he asked her. “Everything you did while you were the Ilse Witch?”

  She nodded. “Everything.”

  “The Sword of Shannara showed it to you?”

  “Every last act. All of the things I did because I wanted revenge on Walker. All of the wrongs I committed because I thought I was entitled to do whatever was necessary to get what I sought.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but not sorry that I got you back.”

  She pushed her long dark hair out of her pale face, revealing the pain in her eyes. “There wasn’t any hope for me unless I discovered the truth about myself. About you and our parents. About everything that happened to us all those years ago. About the Morgawr, especially. I couldn’t be anyone other than who the Morgawr had made me to be—and who I had made myself to be—until that happened. I hate knowing it, but it’s freeing, too. I don’t have to hide anymore.”

  “There are some things you don’t know yet,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to decide where to start. “The people we’re traveling with, the survivors of Walker’s company, all have reason to hate you. They don’t, not all of them anyway, but they have suffered losses because of you. I guess you need to know about those losses, about the harm you’ve caused. I don’t think there’s any way to avoid it.”

  She nodded, her expression one of regret mixed with determination. “Tell me then, Bek. Tell me all of it.”
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  He did so, leaving nothing out. It took him some time to do so, and while he was speaking, he became aware of someone else entering the room, easing over next to him, and sitting close. He knew without looking who it was, and he watched Grianne’s eyes shift to find those of the newcomer. He kept talking nevertheless, afraid that if he looked away, he would not be able to continue. He related his story of the journey to Parkasia, of finding the ruins and Antrax, confronting her, escaping into the mountains and being captured, breaking free of Black Moclips and the rets, coming down into the bowels of Castledown to find that Walker had already tricked her into invoking the cleansing magic of the Sword of Shannara, taking her back into the mountains, and finding their way at last to what remained of the company of the Jerle Shannara.

  When he had finished, he looked over his shoulder to find Rue. She was staring at Grianne. The look on her face was indecipherable. But the tone of her voice when she spoke to his sister was unmistakable.

  “The Morgawr has come searching for you,” she said. “His ships are anchored offshore. In the morning, he will search these ruins. If he finds us, he will try to kill us. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Rue Meridian.” His sister spoke the other’s name as if to make its owner real. “Are you one of those who have not forgiven me?”

  Little Red’s eyes were fierce as they held Grianne’s. One hand came up to rest possessively on Bek’s shoulder. “I have forgiven you.”

  But Bek did not miss the bitterness in her voice or the challenge that lay behind it. Forgiveness is earned, not granted, it said. I forgive you, but what does it matter? You still must demonstrate that my forgiveness is warranted.