The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(2)
But everything comes to an end, even friendships, and families die out or move on, so you couldn’t expect that nothing would ever change.
The Ohmsfords had possessed real magic, inherited over the years as a part of their makeup—a power born of Elven magic that had come to be known as the wishsong. Redden and Railing Ohmsford had both had use of it—though it had skipped other generations previously, and every generation since Railing’s marriage to Mirai Leah. None of the offspring from that union and for the three generations following had possessed the wishsong magic, so for them—as for him—it was another slice of history that was interesting to talk about, but of little practical consequence.
Besides, he wasn’t so certain that having use of such magic wouldn’t be more of a burden than a gift. He had heard the stories of what using it had done to the twins, particularly Redden, who had been rendered catatonic after employing it in the terrible struggle against the creatures of the Forbidding. He had recovered, but his brother and Mirai had feared he wouldn’t. All magic was dangerous, and any use involved a certain amount of risk. It didn’t matter if it was something you were born with or not—it still posed a threat.
Which was in large part why magic was outlawed all through the Southland—everywhere the Federation was in control, which these days included everything south of the Rainbow Lake, including Leah. The northern territories didn’t feel the Federation presence as heavily as did the major Southland cities, and in truth Leah and the villages of the Duln were still disputed territories, with the Borderlands laying claim to them as well. But no one wanted to risk bringing the Federation authorities down on their heads by testing out their tolerance for those using magic in deliberate defiance of the edict—especially when the prevailing view in the Highlands was that magic was a source of power best left to the Druids, or left alone entirely.
Paxon studied the sword and scabbard a moment longer, then turned away. A relic, an artifact, or his sister’s momentary infatuation—what difference did it make? It was nothing to him.
He went back outside and glanced at the sky. A few clouds were moving in, but nothing threatening. Still time to work on those radian draws he had been mending for the transport. He had a run to make the following week, and he wanted the airship to be fully operational well before then. He was thinking Chrys should go with him. It was time she began taking an active interest in the business. Still only fifteen, she was wild and impetuous, just beginning to recognize her lack of interest in authority and fully engaged in finding out how much trouble she could get into. At least, that was what he perceived. His mother was more tolerant, seeing Chrys as a young girl growing up and still finding herself, while Paxon saw her as trouble on the prowl.
Like the time she found a way to haul the Radanians’ tractor onto their barn roof. Or the time she put twenty live pigs in the butcher’s bedroom. Or the time she and three others went down to a council meeting to protest involvement with an irrigation plan that potentially would have dammed up the Borgine River and killed thousands of fish, dumping vats full of dead fish on the chamber floor to emphasize their point.
Or all the times she stayed out all night with boys. Or the times she came home from the Two Roosters walking sideways and singing bawdy Highland drinking songs.
His sister needed something to focus on besides finding new and creative ways to entertain herself, and it was time she began contributing more than housecleaning and dishwashing to the family effort. She already knew a sufficient amount about flying airships to help him on his runs, and eventually she would be old enough and might become sufficiently dependable to make runs on her own. In the meantime, she could learn to fly the transport and lend a hand with crewing.
Maybe that would help keep her out of the Two Roosters and similar drinking holes, where she already spent far too much time.
He walked back into the kitchen and began looking through the cold box and pantry. His mother had gone to her sister’s house for a few days, helping with the new baby. So it would be up to him to make dinner for himself and Chrys—assuming his sister put in an appearance. These days, it was no sure thing. He worried for her, and it frustrated him that she paid him so little attention.
You aren’t my parent, she would say. You can’t tell me what to do. Aggravating.
Sometimes, he wished their father were still there. Chrys had grown up too fast and too independent without him there to help rein her in. Maybe he could have exercised better control over her than Paxon.
He shook his head doubtfully. As if anyone could control Chrysallin.
He left the kitchen with a glass of ale and went out to sit on the porch rocker. Maybe he would have to go looking for her, bring her back to share dinner. He didn’t like eating alone. He didn’t like eating while worrying about her. It was bad enough that he had to do everything when their mother was away. Chrys didn’t seem to think she had any responsibilities at all. She acted like she could do what she wanted and that ought to be the way of things.
She acted like a child, he thought, fuming. She acted like no one mattered but her.
But she was a child, of course. She was fifteen—and when you were a fifteen-year-old girl, no one else mattered but yourself.
She had a good heart; he would concede that. She was kind to others, especially to those in need of kindness and less fortunate than she was. She was quick to lend out or even give away what she had to those who didn’t. She could be your friend in a heartbeat, if she saw you wished it. She stood up for what she believed in. She would not back down or be intimidated. His memories of her growing up softened his momentary frustration. She would get back to who she had been; he was sure of it. She would be all right in the end.