He read at first without comprehending, simply seeing the words
flow in front of his eyes, a narrative that was as distant and
removed as the life he had known before the dreams of Allanon.
He read of the Druids and their studies, of the world they had
tried to make after the cataclysm of the Great Wars, of the First
Council at Paranor, and of the coming together of the Races
out of the holocaust. What should it mean to him? he won-
dered. What difference did any of it make now?
He finished one book and went on to another, then another,
working his way steadily through the volumes, constantly
searching for something that would tell him what he needed to
know. There were recitations of spells and conjurings, of magics
that could aid in small ways, of healings by touch and thought,
of the succor of living things, and of the work that was needed
to make the land whole again. He read them, and they told him
nothing. How was he supposed to transform himself from what
he was into what he was expected to be? Where did it say what
he was supposed to do? The pages turned, the words ran on,
and the answers stayed hidden.
He did not finish in one sitting, even though he was free of
the distractions of his mortal needs and did not sleep or eat or
drink. He left to walk about periodically, to think of other
things, and to let his mind clear itself of all that the Histories
related. Sometimes Cogline went with him, his shadow; some-
times it was Rumor. They might have been back at Hearth-
stone, walking its trails, keeping each other company, living in
the seclusion of the valley once more. But Hearthstone was
gone, destroyed by the Shadowen, and Paranor was dark and
empty of life, and no amount of wishing could change what
had gone before. There was no returning to the past, Walker
thought to himself more than once. Everything that had once
been was lost.
After a time, he began to despair. He had almost finished
reading the Druid Histories and still he had discovered noth-
ing. He had learned everything of who and what the Druids
were, of their teachings and their beliefs, and of how they
had lived and what they they had sought to accomplish, and
none of it told him anything about how they acquired their
skills. There was no indication of where Allanon had come
from, how he had learned to be a Druid or who had taught
him, or what the subject matter of his teachings had been. The
books were devoid of any reference to the conjuring that had
sealed away the Keep or what it might require to reverse the
spell.
“I cannot fathom it, Cogline,” Walker Boh admitted finally,
frustrated beyond hope as the last of the volumes sat open on
his lap before him. “I have read everything, and none of it has
helped. Is it possible that there are volumes missing? Is there
something more to be tried?”
But Cogline shook his head. The answers, if they existed in
written form, would be found here. There were no other books,
no other sources of reference. Everything was contained in the
Histories. All of the Druid studies began and ended there.
Walker went out alone then for a time, stalking the halls in
anger, feeling betrayed and cheated, a victim of Druid whim
and conceit. He thought bitterly of all that had been done to
him because of who he was, of all that he had been forced to
endure. His home had been destroyed. He had lost an arm and
barely escaped with his life. He had been lied to and tricked
repeatedly. He had been made to feel responsible for the fate
of an entire world. Self-pity washed through him, and then his
mouth tightened in admonishment. Enough, he chided himself.
He was alive, wasn’t he? Others had not been so fortunate. He
was still haunted by Quickening’s face; he could not forget how
she had looked when he had let her fall. Remember me, she had
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