The Druid seemed to retreat into himself for a long moment, then continued.

“Bremen was my father. He had a chance to end the menace of the Warlock Lord, but he made too many mistakes and Brona escaped him. His escape was my father’s responsibility-and if the Warlock Lord had succeeded in his plans, my father would have earned the blame. I lived with the fear of that happening until it was an obsession. I swore not to make the mistakes he had made. I’m afraid, Shea, that I never really had much faith in you. I feared you were too weak to do what had to be done, and I hid the truth to serve my own ends. In many ways, I was unfair to you. But you were my last chance to redeem my father, to purge my own sense of guilt for what he had done, and to erase forever the responsibility of the Druids for the creation of Brona.”

He hesitated and looked directly into Shea’s eyes. “I was wrong, Valeman. You were a better man than I gave you credit for being.”

Shea smiled and shook his head slowly.

“No, Allanon. You were the one who so often spoke to me of hindsight. Now heed your own words, historian.”

In the darkness across from him, the Druid returned the smile wistfully.

“I wish… I wish we had more time, Shea Ohmsford. Time to learn to know each other better. But I have a debt that must be paid… all too soon…”

He trailed off almost sadly, the lean face lowering into shadow. The puzzled Valeman waited a moment, thinking that he would say something more. He did not.

“In the morning, then.” Shea stretched wearily and burrowed deep into the cloak, warm and relaxed by the soup and the fire. “We’ve a long journey back to the Southland.”

Allanon did not reply immediately.

“Your friends are close now, looking for you,” he responded finally. “When they find you, will you relate to them all that I have told you?”

Shea barely heard him, his thoughts drifting to Shady Vale and the hope of going home again.

“You can do the job better than I,” he murmured sleepily.

There was another long moment of silence. At last he heard Allanon moving in the darkness beyond, and when the tall man spoke again, his voice sounded strangely distant.

“I may not be able to, Shea. I’m very tired-I’ve exhausted myself physically. For a time now, I must… sleep.”

“Tomorrow,” Shea mumbled. “Good night.”

The Druid’s voice came back a whisper.

“Good-bye, my young friend. Good-bye, Shea.”

But the Valeman was already sleeping.

Shea awoke with a start, the morning sunlight streaming down on him. His eyes snapped open at the sound of horses’ hooves and booted feet, and he found himself surrounded by a cluster of lean, rangy figures clothed in forest green. Instinctively his hand dropped to the Sword of Shannara, and he struggled to a sitting position, squinting sharply to see their faces. They were Elves. A tall, hard-featured Elf detached himself from the group and bent down to him. Deep, penetrating green eyes locked into his own, and a firm hand came up to rest reassuringly on his shoulder.