The Scions of Shannara by Terry Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A

the rain, staring up at the dark expanse of the canvas, catching the flicker of the firelight against its damp surface.
    â€œMaybe I’ll choose my own dream,” he said softly.
    Then he was asleep.
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    He did dream that night, the first time in almost two weeks. It was the dream he wanted, the dream of the dark-robed figure, and it was as if he were able to reach out and bring it to him. It seemed to come at once, to slip from the depths of his subconscious the moment sleep came. He was shocked at its suddenness, but didn’t wake. He saw the dark figure rise from the lake, watched it come for him, vague yet faceless, so menacing that he would have fled if he could. But the dream was master now and would not let him. He heard himself asking why the dream had been absent for so long, but there was no answer given. The dark figure simply approached in silence, not speaking, not giving any indication of its purpose.
    Then it came to a stop directly before him, a being that could have been anything or anyone, good or evil, life or death.
    Speak to me, he thought, frightened.
    But the figure merely stood there, draped in shadow, silent and immobile. It seemed to be waiting.
    Then Par stepped forward and pushed back the cowl that hid the other, emboldened by some inner strength he did not know he possessed. He drew the cowl free and the face beneath was as sharp as if etched in bright sunlight. He knew it instantly. He had sung of it a thousand times. It was as familiar to him as his own.
    The face was Allanon’s.

 
    IV
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    W hen he came awake the next morning, Par decided not to say anything to Coll about his dream. In the first place, he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t be sure if the dream had occurred on its own or because he had been thinking so hard about having it—and even then he had no way of knowing if it was the real thing. In the second place, telling Coll would just start him off again on how foolish it was for Par to keep thinking about something he obviously wasn’t going to do anything about. Was he? Then, if Par was honest with him, they would fight about the advisability of going off into the Dragons Teeth in search of the Hadeshorn and a three-hundred-year-dead Druid. Better just to let the matter rest.
    They ate a cold breakfast of wild berries and some stream water, lucky to have that. The rains had stopped, but the sky was overcast, and the day was gray and threatening. The wind had returned, rather strong out of the northwest, and tree limbs bent and leaves rustled wildly against its thrust. They packed up their gear, boarded the skiff, and pushed off onto the river.
    The Mermidon was heavily swollen, and the skiff tossed and twisted roughly as it carried them south. Debris choked the waters, and they kept the oars at hand to push off any large pieces that threatened damage to the boat. The cliffs of the Runne loomed darkly on either side, wrapped in trailers of mist and low-hanging clouds. It was cold in their shadow, and the brothers felt their hands and feet grow quickly numb.
    They pulled into shore and rested when they could, but it accomplished little. There was nothing to eat and no way to get warm without taking time to build a fire. By early afternoon, it was raining again. It grew quickly colder in the rainfall, the wind picked up, and it became dangerous to continue on the river. When they found a small cove in the shelter of a stand of old pine, they quickly maneuvered the skiff ashore and set camp for the night.
    They managed a fire, ate the fish Coll caught and tried their best to dry out beneath the canvas with rain blowing in from every side. They slept poorly, cold and uncomfortable, the wind blowing down the canyon of the mountains and the river churning against its banks. That night, Par didn’t dream at all.
    Morning brought a much-needed change in the weather. The storm moved east, the skies cleared and filled with bright sunlight, and