His fingers tightened on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “I made the mistake of thinking I could shape the future in the way I sought. I was wrong. Life doesn’t permit it, not even if you are a Druid. We are given glimpses of possibilities, nothing more. The future is a map drawn in the sand, and the tide can wash it away in a moment. It is so here. All of our efforts in coming to this land, Truls, all of our sacrifices, have been for something we never once considered.”
He paused, his breathing weak and labored, the effort of speaking further too much for him.
“Then what did we come here for?” Truls Rohk asked impatiently, still angered by what he was hearing. “What, Druid?”
“For her,” Walker whispered, and pointed at Grianne.
The shape-shifter was so stunned that for a moment he could not seem to find anything to say in response. It was as if the fire had gone out of him completely.
“We came for Grianne?” Bek asked in surprise, not sure he had heard correctly.
“It will become clear to you when you are home again,” Walker whispered, his words almost inaudible, even in the deep silence of the cavern. “She is your charge, Bek. She is your responsibility now, your sister recovered as you wished she might be. Return her to the Four Lands. Do what you must, but see her home again.”
“This makes no sense at all!” Truls Rohk snapped in fury. “She is our enemy!”
“Give me your word, Bek,” Walker said, his eyes never leaving the boy.
Bek nodded. “You have it.”
Walker held his gaze a moment longer, then looked at the shape-shifter. “And you, as well, Truls. Your word.”
For a moment, Bek thought Truls Rohk wasn’t going to give it. The shape-shifter didn’t say anything, staring at the Druid in silence. Tension radiated from his dark form, yet he refused to reveal what he was thinking.
Walker’s fingers kept their death grip on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “Your word,” he whispered again. “Trust me enough to give it.”
Truls Rohk exhaled in a hiss of frustration and dismay. “All right. I give you my word.”
“Care for her as you would for each other,” the Druid continued, his eyes back on Bek. “She will not always be like this. She will recover one day. But until then, she needs looking after. She needs you to ward her from danger.”
“What can we do to help her wake?” Bek pressed.
The Druid took a long, ragged breath. “She must help herself, Bek. The Sword of Shannara has revealed to her the truth about her life, about the lies she has been told and the wrong paths she has taken. She has been forced to confront who she has become and what she has done. She is barely grown, and already she has committed more heinous wrongs and destructive acts than others will commit in a lifetime. She has much to forgive herself for, even given the fact that she was so badly misled by the Morgawr. The responsibility for finding forgiveness lies with her. When she finds a way to accept that, she will recover.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Truls Rohk asked. “It may be, Druid, that she is beyond forgiveness, not just from others, but even from herself. She is a monster, even in this world.”
Bek gave the shape-shifter an angry glance, thinking that Truls would never change his opinion of Grianne, that to him she would always be the Ilse Witch and his enemy.
The Druid had a fit of coughing, then steadied. “She is human, Truls—like you,” he replied softly. “Others labeled you a monster. They were wrong to do so. It is the same with her. She is not beyond redemption. But that is her path to walk, not yours. Yours is to see that she has the chance to walk it.”
He coughed again, more deeply. His breathing was so thick and wet that with every breath it seemed he might choke on his own blood. The sound of it emanated from deep in his chest, where his lungs were filling. Yet he lifted himself into a sitting position, freed himself from Truls Rohk’s arms, and motioned him away.