Morgawr by Terry Brooks

On the second night, after trying and again failing to persuade Grianne to eat something, Bek confronted Truls Rohk.

“I don’t get the feeling that running away is going to accomplish anything,” he said. “Other than to keep us alive for another day.”

The other’s head was bowed, the black opening to the cowl lowered. “Isn’t that enough, boy?”

“Don’t call me ‘boy’ anymore, Truls. I don’t like the way it sounds.”

The cowl lifted now. “What did you say?”

Bek stood his ground. “I’m not a boy,—I’m grown. You make me sound young and foolish. I’m not.”

The shape-shifter went perfectly still, and Bek half expected one of those powerful hands to shoot out, snatch him by his tunic front, and shake him until his bones rattled.

“Sooner or later, we have to stop running,” Bek said, forcing himself to continue. “We tried running last time, and it didn’t work. I think we need a better plan. We need somewhere to go.”

There was no response. The empty opening of the cowl faced him like a hole in the earth that would swallow him if he stepped too close.

“I think we ought to go back into the mountains and find the shape-shifters who live there.”

The other exhaled sharply. “Why?”

“Because they might be able to tell us where we should go. They might help us in some way. They seemed interested in me when they appeared there last time, as if they saw something about me that I didn’t. They were the ones who insisted I had to stand up to Grianne. I think they might help us now.”

“Didn’t they tell you not to come back?”

“They saved your life. Maybe it would be different if we went back together.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t.”

Bek stiffened. “Do you have a better idea? Are we going to go up into those mountains and try to cross them without knowing what’s on the other side? Or are we just going to stay down here in these woods until we run out of trees to hide in? What are we going to do, Truls?”

“Lower your voice when you speak to me or you won’t have a chance to ask those kinds of questions again!” The shape-shifter rose and stalked away. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled over his shoulder. “Later.”

Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. He was gone all night, out scouting, Bek presumed. But, gone deep inside himself, unreachable, Truls Rohk refused to talk to Bek on returning the next morning. They set out again at daybreak, the skies clear, the air sharp and cool, the sunlight pale and thin. Bek had told Truls not to call him a boy anymore, but in truth he still felt like a boy. He had endured tremendous hardships and confronted terrible revelations about himself, and while the experiences had changed him in many ways, they hadn’t made him feel any more capable of dealing with life. He was still hesitant and unsure about himself. He might have the power of the wishsong and the heritage of the Sword of Shannara to fall back on, but none of it gave him a sense of being any more mature. He was still a boy running from the things that frightened him, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew his sister needed him, he might have fallen apart already.

Truls Rohk’s refusal to speak to him, even to acknowledge him, left him feeling more insecure than before. He half believed—had always half believed—that the shape-shifter’s commitment to look after him was written on the wind. Nothing the other did or said suggested he felt particularly bound to honor that commitment, especially with Walker dead and gone. With one chase leading into another, with the effort of running wearing on the shape-shifter’s nerves and nothing good coming from it, Bek felt the distance between himself and Truls growing wider.

Once, the shape-shifter had told him how much alike they were. It had been a long time since he had spoken in such terms, and Bek was no longer certain that Truls had really meant what he said. He had used Bek to poke needles into Walker, to play at the games they had engaged in for so many years. Nothing suggested to Bek there was anything more to his relationship with the shape-shifter than that.