Par shrugged. “That he . . .” He stopped. “That he used
powders that exploded. That he knew something of the old sci-
ences, that he’d studied them somewhere.” He was remember-
ing the specifics of the tales of Cogline now, and in remembering
found himself thinking that maybe this old man’s claim wasn’t
so farfetched. “He employed different forms of power, the sorts
that the Druids had discarded in their rebuilding of the old world.
Shades! If you are Cogline, you must still have such power. Do
you? Is it magic like my own?”
Coil looked suddenly worried. “Par!”
“Like your own?” the old man asked quickly. “Magic like
the wishsong? Hah! Never! Never so unpredictable as that! That
was always the trouble with the Druids and their Elven magics-
too unpredictable! The power I wield is grounded in sciences
proven and tested through the years by reliable study! It doesn’t
act of its own accord; it doesn’t evolve like something alive!”
He stopped, a fierce smile creasing his aged face. “But then,
too. Par Ohmsford, my power doesn’t sing either!”
“Are you really Cogline?” Par asked softly, his amazement
at it being possible apparent in his voice.
“Yes,” the old man whispered back. “Yes, Par.” He swung
quickly then to face Coil, who was about to interrupt, placing a
narrow, bony finger to his lips. “Shhhh, young Ohmsford, I
know you still disbelieve, and your brother as well, but just
listen for a moment. You are children of the Elven house of
Shannara. There have not been many and always much has been
expected of them. It will be so with you as well, I think. More
so, perhaps. I am not permitted to see. I am just a messenger,
as I have told you-a poor messenger at best. An unwilling
messenger, truth is. But I am all that Allanon has.”
‘ ‘But why you?” Par managed to interject, his lean face trou-
bled now and intense.
The old man paused, his gnarled, wrinkled face tightening
even further as if the question demanded too much of him. When
he spoke finally, it was in a stillness that was palpable.
“Because I was a Druid once, so long ago I can scarcely
remember what it felt like. I studied the ways of the magic and
the ways of the discarded sciences and chose the latter, forsak-
ing thereby any claim to the former and the right to continue
with the others. Allanon knew me, or if you prefer, he knew
about me, and he remembered what I was. But, wait. I embel-
lish a bit by claiming I actually was a Druid. I wasn’t; I was
simply a student of the ways. But Allanon remembered in any
case. When he came to me, it was as one Druid to another,
though he did not say as much. He lacks anyone but myself to
do what is needed now, to come after you and the others, to
advise them of the legitimacy of their dreams. All have had them
by now, you understand-Wren and Walker Boh as well as you.
All have been given a vision of the danger the future holds. No
one responds. So he sends me.”
The sharp eyes blinked away the memory. “I was a Druid
once, in spirit if not in practice, and I practice still many of the
Druid ways. No one knew. Not my grandchild Kimber, not your
ancestors, no one. I have lived many different lives, you see.
When I went with Brin Ohmsford into the country of the Mael-
mord, it was as Cogline the hermit, half-crazed, half-able, car-
rying magic powders filled with strange notions. That was who
I was then. That was the person I had become. It took me years
afterward, long after Kimber had gone, to recover myself, to act
and talk like myself again.”
He sighed. “It was the Druid Sleep that kept me alive for so
long. I knew its secret; I had carried it with me when I left them.
I thought many times not to bother, to give myself over to death
and not cling so. But something kept me from giving way, and