The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(29)

“Because every time you use magic, you risk someone finding out about it. The Druids are not the only ones who scour the Four Lands in search of magic. Others, many not friendly to the order and not respectful of its goals, hunt it, too. We don’t always know who these people are or where they can be found, so we use caution in employing magic and avoid invoking it whenever we can.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

“I’m counting on it.” She gave him a brief smile. “Now go along with Starks and let him explain more about the details. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

She went back to sorting through her papers, and Paxon went out the door with the other Druid. As they walked side by side down the hallway, Starks asked, “How long have you been here, Paxon? It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“A little more than two months.”

“Working with Oost the entire time?”

“Mostly. In the afternoons. Sebec teaches me about magic in the mornings—about how it works and what to look out for when using it. How long have you been here?”

The other shrugged. “Maybe six years. I’m impressed by the fact that you had a run-in with Arcannen and lived to tell about it.”

Paxon suppressed a grin. “I was lucky. The sword’s magic saved me. How do you know about this?”

Starks gave him a look, his bland expression shifting into something resembling amusement. “Everyone knows, Paxon. Everyone knew even before you arrived. The Druids keep few secrets from one another.”

The Highlander frowned, looking off in the distance. “Apparently.”

Starks laughed. “You didn’t think there wouldn’t be talk of you before you arrived, did you? Not when you are the first paladin selected by the Ard Rhys in five years. You did know that, didn’t you?”

Paxon managed a sheepish smile. “I think Sebec said something about it. I guess the one before me didn’t last.”

“Didn’t and shouldn’t have. You, at least, seem better settled and certainly more seasoned. Oost talks, too, you know—even if you don’t see him doing so. He likes you.”

“He does?” Paxon was genuinely surprised. “I always believed he was pretty much just putting up with me.”

Starks came to a halt. “If he didn’t like you or think you were adequately prepared for it, you wouldn’t be going with me. You can be certain of that.”

He started away, and then he turned back. “You should also know that I asked for you to come with me. That ought to tell you something.”

A moment later, he was gone.


They set out at dawn, flying the familiar two-masted clipper crewed by a pair of Troll guards. One of them took the helm and the other managed the lines and light sheaths. Starks showed no interest in helping out; indeed, he placed himself squarely in front of the pilot box upon a folded blanket, his black robes wrapped about him, and disappeared into a book he had carried aboard. After stowing his bag, Paxon stood around for a bit, trying to decide what to do. He didn’t want to interrupt Starks, and the Trolls seemed fine without him.

Finally, he moved to the bow of the clipper and started working through the list of exercises that Oost Mondara had given him to loosen up every afternoon before weapons practice. But he was free to use his own sword now, and he did. The blade felt so much lighter and more balanced in his hands than the wooden model he used in field practice that he practically flew through his exercises. When he finished the first run, he drank some water from the deck barrel and began again.

Two hours later, he felt hot and vaguely light-headed, perhaps from doing so much at a higher altitude. In any case, Starks told him to break it off and have some lunch.

They sat together with tins of hot vegetable stew and bread and washed it down with ale. Surreptitiously, Paxon watched the other man, trying to make sense of him. He seemed so removed from everything, as if he was always somewhere else in his mind. He showed no obvious concern for the mission on which they had been sent, having not once bothered to discuss it with his companion.

Finally, Paxon said, “Do you think we’ll have any trouble with getting this magic away from whoever has it?”

Starks smiled. “You want to know why I don’t seem worried about it. Maybe why I don’t even seem interested. It’s just the way I am. I don’t like to think too far ahead about what’s waiting around the corner. I like to be prepared, but not troubled. We’ve got two days before we reach Grimpen Ward. There is no point in fussing about it until then.”

Paxon frowned. “I don’t know if I could do that.”

“Most can’t. Other Druids wonder about me. I hear them talking sometimes when they think I don’t hear. But I’ve always been different from most of them anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Paxon said.

“I’m from the deep Southland. From Sterne. Not too many raised that far inside the Federation find their way to Paranor.”

“But you did?”

“I wasn’t satisfied with what the Federation had to offer. I didn’t accept that I wasn’t supposed to use magic if I could manage to do so. That sort of rule feels artificial. So I went north and asked the Druids if they would take me. Some of them wouldn’t have, I suspect. But the Ard Rhys did. She never questioned me, never asked for a reason, and never suggested I wasn’t to be trusted because of where I came from. She worked with me personally for a time, and then gave me over to Isaturin. That was daunting. He was very precise, very demanding. A tough teacher. But I came through, and now I am a full-fledged member of the order.”