Even so, the Home Guard watched over Jerle Shannara, come to protect one of their own as much as to protect a member of the royal family and a rumored king-to-be.
The Guard stopped Vree Erreden three times before he reached the door to the summerhouse, letting him pass then only because Jerle had made certain that the locat was to be given free access to him at all times. It was strange how their relationship had changed.
They had little in common, and Tay’s death might easily have ended any pretense at friendship between them, for the Druid Elf was the source of any bonding they had forged on their journey west. With Tay dead, they might have drifted apart again, each suspicious and disdainful of the other, each drawing back into himself.
But that had not happened. Perhaps it was their unspoken, individual resolve that it should not happen, that they owed Tay this much. Perhaps it was a common need that bound them, a need to understand the terrible events of their journey, a need to make something good come out of their friend’s death. Tay had sacrificed himself for them—shouldn’t they put aside their differences for his sake? They talked of many things on their return—of what their friend had done, of the importance he attached to carrying out Bremen’s charge, of the deadly nature of the Black Elfstone, of its place in the greater scheme of things, of the darkening shadow of the Warlock Lord hanging over them all. With Preia Starle, they talked of what Tay had hoped to accomplish and how they must see that his goals were realized—to see that the Black Elfstone reached Bremen and that the Elven army was dispatched in aid of the Dwarves. Their thoughts were not of themselves, but of the greater world and the danger that threatened it.
Two nights out of Arborlon on their return from the Breakline, Jerle asked the locat if he would reveal to him any visions or whisperings hereafter that might affect what they had agreed to try to accomplish. It was not easy for him to ask, and Vree Erreden knew it. The locat said, after a few moments’ reflection, that he would—that he would do anything in his power to help. He would like, in fact, to offer his services to Jerle personally, if the other thought he might have use of them. Jerle accepted the offer. They shook hands to seal their arrangement and, though they would not say so, the beginnings of their friendship.
So here was the locat come for the first time in two days, stepping in out of the rain like a beaten creature, his worn cloak soaked clear through, his small, thin form hunched and shivering. Preia met him at the door, took his cloak away and led him to the fire so that he might warm himself. Jerle poured a measure of strong ale and gave it to him. Preia wrapped him in a blanket. Vree Erreden accepted all with muttered thanks and furtive looks. His eyes were intense. He had come to them for a reason.
“I have something to tell you,” he said to Jerle after the chill had left him sufficiently that he could speak without shaking. “I have had a vision, and it involves you.”
Jerle nodded. “What have you seen?”
The locat rubbed his hands together, then drank some of the ale, a few sips only. His face was pinched and his eyes deep-set and hollow, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. But he had looked haunted ever since their return from the Breakline. The events in the Chew Magna had devastated his psyche. The fortress and its occupants had attacked him mercilessly, tried to crush him so that he would be of no use to Tay Trefenwyd, whom they had intended for their own. They had failed, but the damage to the locat from their attack was evident.
“When Tay first came to me to solicit my help in his search for the Black Elfstone, I used my skills to look into his mind.” Vree Erreden shifted suddenly to face the other, his gaze unexpectedly steady. “It was a way to discover quickly and accurately what it was that he believed I might find. I did not tell him what I was doing; I did not want him to shade any truths that he possessed.
“What I discovered was more than what I sought. He had been told by the Druid Bremen of four visions. One was of the Chew Magna and the Black Elfstone. This was the one that I was supposed to see. But I saw the others as well. I saw the destruction at Paranor as Bremen searched for a medallion that hung from a chain. I saw the Druid again at a dark lake...”
He trailed off, then brushed aside what he was about to say with a quick, anxious wave of his hand. “Never mind either of those. It is the last that matters.”
He paused, distracted. “I have heard talk. The Elves would make you king. They would be done with Alyten and the grandchildren and crown you.”
“Just talk, nothing more,” Jerle interjected quickly.
Vree Erreden folded into himself beneath his robes. “I don’t think so.” He let the words hang.
Preia edged forward beside Jerle. “What have you seen, Vree? Is Alyten Ballindarroch dead?”
The locat shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t shown that. I was shown something else. But it impacts on the matter of kingship.” He took a deep breath. “The vision, Bremen’s last, that I glimpsed within Tay’s memory, was of a man standing on a battlefield armed with a sword. The sword was a talisman, a powerful magic. The Eilt Drain’s image of a hand holding forth a burning torch was graven on the pommel of the sword, clearly revealed. Across from the man was a wraith cloaked all in black, featureless and impenetrable save for eyes that were pinpricks of red fire. The man and the wraith were engaged in mortal combat.”
He sipped again at his ale, and now his gaze dropped away. “I only had a single glimpse of this vision, and I did not pay it much mind. It was not important then. It gave credence to the rest of what Tay told me of his quest, nothing more. I had not really thought about it again until now.”
The dark eyes lifted. “Today, I read my maps before the fire. The warmth of the flames and the rain falling outside in steady cadence caused me to doze, and as I slept I had a vision. It was sudden, intense, and unexpected. This is unusual, because mostly the visions, the hunches, the indicators of what is lost and might be found, are slower and more gentle in their coming. But this vision was sharp, and I recognized it immediately. It was Bremen’s vision of the man and the wraith on the battlefield. But this time I knew them. The wraith was the Warlock Lord. The man, Jerle Shannara, was you.”
Jerle wanted to laugh. For some reason, this struck him as ridiculous. Perhaps it was the impossibility of the idea. Perhaps it was his inability to believe that Tay had not recognized him in the vision, yet Vree Erreden had. Perhaps it was simply a reaction to the twinge of misgiving he felt on hearing the local’s words, “There is more.” The locat did not give him time to think. “The sword you carried bore the emblem of the medallion that Bremen carried in the vision of Paranor destroyed. The medallion is called the Eilt Drum. It is the symbol of office of the High Druids of Paranor. Its magic is very powerful. The sword was the weapon forged to destroy Brona, and the Eilt Drain was made a part of that weapon. No one told me these things, you understand. No one said they were so. I simply knew them to be true. Just as I knew, seeing you standing on that battlefield for that single moment in time, that you had become King of the Elves.”
“No.” Jerle shook his head stubbornly. “You are mistaken.”
The locat faced him and did not look away.
“Did you see my face?”
“I did not need to see your face,” Vree Erreden declared softly. “Or hear your voice. Or look about to see if others followed you as they would their king. It was you.”
“Then the vision itself is false. It must be!” Jerle looked to Preia for help, but her response to his gaze was deliberate silence. His fists knotted angrily. “I do not want any part of this!”