The Black Elfstone (The Fall of Shannara) by Terry Brooks

Author:Terry Brooks [Brooks, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2017-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

THE MORNING WAS A clouded, rainy, gloomy shroud, all darkness and shadows and the hint of an unpleasant chill. It was understandable how such a day could affect your disposition—especially if you were one of those people, like Tavo Kaynin, who were susceptible to mood changes and reacted strongly to light and darkness. One minute you could be perfectly fine, the day bright and cheerful and you bright and cheerful with it. Another, and you could find the weather and yourself as unpleasant as anything you could have imagined.

And then you began to think of all the things that troubled you and all the people who had misled and betrayed you. Then the rage would come, strong and knowable and certain, a kind of stiffening of the body and mind, as if a fire burned through your body and you inhaled its power.

And then, if you were the brother of a wicked, deceitful girl like Tarsha, you thought about how you would punish her once you found her.

Tavo Kaynin had been walking for three days—a slog through dark moods and darker silences in which demons surfaced and screamed at him incessantly, awake and in dreams, their voices shrill and demanding.

Do what you must! Hunt her down! Did she not hurt you? You must now hurt her!

The words, piercing and unrelenting, fueled his rage. He welcomed them as old friends, as reminders of what he was about as he traipsed across the Westland toward the Tirfing. They showed him visions of her, revealing the depth of her deceit, suggesting the things he could do to her once she was in his power.

His sister. His nemesis.

Sometimes, she walked with him. She was there at his side when he allowed her to be—never entirely visible, but more of a phantom that he could only glimpse, drifting and surreal. She was there to remind him how she had betrayed him.

Other times, she hid within the trees of the forest, a presence more than an image. In those moments, she would whisper to him—words of succor and reassurance that he knew to be false but wished so badly were not. She was in the shadows and in the rush of the wind. She was in the movement of the clouds overhead. She was even in the flitting of small birds and the scrambling of tiny mice. But she was there, and he saw her.

And sometimes, every now and then, she reminded him of how much she had comforted him during their early years, when she was the only friend he had. She reminded him of how hard she had tried to protect him, even though she was five years younger and so much smaller. He would remember the closeness they had shared, the love she had engendered in him, the sense of peace she was able to bring to him in times so dark he was certain he must go mad. He would remember how she tried to help him with the magic—to control it, to keep it at bay, to not let it rule his life.

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