First King of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page A

vaguely substantial, a wraith without flesh or bones, yet of firmer stuff than the smaller creatures it dominated.
    Bremen held himself steady as the dark figure advanced. This was whom he had come to see; this was the one he had summoned. Yet he was no longer certain he had done the right thing. The cloaked form slowed, so close now that it blotted out the sky above and the valley behind. Its hood lifted, and there was no face, no sign of anything within the dark robes.
    It spoke, and its voice was a rumble of discontent.
    â€”Do you know me—
    Flat, dispassionate, and empty, a question without a question’s inflection, the words hung upon the silence in a lingering echo.
    Bremen nodded slowly in response. “I do,” he whispered.
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    At the rim of the valley, the four he had left behind watched the drama unfold. They saw the old man stand upon the shores of the Hadeshorn and summon the spirits of the dead. They saw the spirits rise amid the roiling of the waters, saw their glowing forms, the movement of their arms and legs, the twisting of their bodies in a macabre dance of momentary freedom. They watched as the huge, black-robed form lifted from their midst, enveloping them in its wake, absorbing their light. They watched the figure advance to stand before Bremen.
    But they could hear nothing of what they saw. Within the valley, all was silent. The sounds of the lake and the spirits were closed away. The voices of the Druid and the cloaked figure, if they spoke, were inaudible. They could hear only the wind that rushed past their ears and the beginning patter of raindrops on the crushed stone. The expected storm was breaking, rolling out of the west in a mass of dark clouds, descending on them with sheets of rain. It reached them at the same moment the cloaked figure reached Bremen, and it swallowed everything in an instant’s time. The lake, the spirits, the cloaked figure, Bremen, the whole of the valley—all were gone in the blink of an eye.
    Risca growled in dismay and glanced quickly at the others. They were cloaked now against the storm, hunched down within their coverings like crones bent with age. “Can you see?” he demanded anxiously.
    â€œNothing,” Tay Trefenwyd answered at once. “They’re gone.”
    For a moment, no one moved, uncertain what they should do. Kinson peered through the downpour’s haze, trying to distinguish something of the shapes he thought he could just make out. But everything was shadowy and surreal, and there was no chance of making sure from where they stood.
    â€œHe may be in trouble,” Risca snapped accusingly.
    â€œHe told us to wait,” Kinson forced himself to say, not wanting to be reminded of the old man’s instructions when he feared so for him, but not willing to ignore his promise either.
    Rain blew into their faces in sudden gusts, choking them.
    â€œHe is all right!” Mareth cried out suddenly, her hand brushing the air before her face.
    They stared at her. “You can see them?” Risca demanded.
    She nodded, her face lowered into shadow. “Yes.”
    But she could not. Kinson was closest to her and saw what the others missed. If she was seeing Bremen, it was not through her eyes. Her eyes, he realized in shock, had turned white.
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    Within the Valley of Shale, no rain fell, no wind blew, nothing of the storm penetrated. There was for Bremen no sense of anything beyond the lake and the dark figure that stood upon it before him.
    â€”Speak my name—
    Bremen took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of his limbs and the rush of cold that filled his chest. “You are Galaphile that was.”
    It was an expected part of the ritual. A spirit summoned could not remain unless its name was spoken by the summoner. Now it could stay long enough to give answers to the questions Bremen would ask—if it chose to answer at all.
    The shade stirred, suddenly restless.
    â€”What