gave way to nervous irritation and that in turn to anger. He
realized that what he had experienced was more probably a pre-
monition of what might be than a vision of what was.
Steadying himself, he built a small fire, let it bum awhile to
warm him, then took a pinch of silver powder from a pouch at
his waist and dropped it into the flames. Smoke rose, filling the
air before him with images that shimmered with iridescent light.
He waited, letting them play themselves out, watching them
closely until they had faded away.
Then he grunted in satisfaction, kicked out the fire, rolled
himself back into his robes, and lay down again. The images
told him only a lime, but a little was all he needed to know. He
was reassured. The dream was only a dream. The Shannara
children lived. There were dangers that threatened them, of
course-just as there had been from the beginning. He had
sensed them in the images, monstrous and frightening, dark
wraiths of possibility.
But that was as it must be.
The old man closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. There
was nothing to be done about it this night.
Everything, he repeated, was as it must be.
Then he slept.
Here ends Book One of The Heritage of Shannara. Book
Two, The Druid of Shannara, will reveal more of Cogline, who
calls himself a failed Druid, and of the troubles of the children
of Shannara.