In the three hundred years since the death of the Druid Allanon, the evil Shadowen have seized control of the Four Lands. If they are to be saved, the black Elfstone must be retrieved, at whatever cost to life or love....
The Druid of Shannara
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The King of the Silver River stood at the edge of the Gardens that had been his domain since the
dawn of the age of faerie and looked out over the world of mortal men. What he saw left him sad and
discouraged. Everywhere the land sickened and died, rich black earth turning to dust, grassy plains
withering, forests becoming huge stands of deadwood, and lakes and rivers either stagnating or
drying away. Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickened
and died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment they
relied upon grew poisoned. Even the air had begun to turn foul.
And all the while, the King of the Silver River thought, the Shadowen
grow stronger.
His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the cyclamen that
grew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just beyond, dogwood and
cherry farther back, fuchsia and hibiscus, rhododendrons and dahlias,
beds of iris, azaleas, daffodils, roses, and a hundred other varieties
of flowers and flowering plants that were always in bloom, a profusion
of colors that stretched away into the distance until lost from sight.
There were animals to be seen as well, both large and small, creatures
whose evolution could be traced back to that distant time when all
things lived in harmony and peace.
In the present world, the world of the Four Lands and the Races that had
evolved out of the chaos and destruction of the Great Wars, that time
was all but forgotten. The King of the Silver River was its sole
remnant. He had been alive when the world was new and its first
creatures were just being born. He had been young then, and there had
been many like him. Now he was old and he was the last of his kind.
Everything that had been, save for the Gardens in which he lived, had
passed away. The Gardens alone survived, changeless, sustained by the
magic of faerie. The Word had given the Gardens to the King of the
Silver River and told him to tend them, to keep them as a reminder of
what had once been and what might one day be again. The world without
would evolve as it must, but the Gardens would remain forever the same.
Even so, they were shrinking. It was not so much physical as spiritual.
The boundaries of the Gardens were fixed and unalterable, for the
Gardens existed in a plane of being unaffected by changes in the world
of mortal men. The Gardens were a presence rather than a place. Yet that
presence was diminished by the sickening of the world to which it was
tied, for the work of the Gardens and their tender was to keep that
world strong. As the Four Lands grew poisoned, the work became harder,
the effects of that work grew shorter, and the boundaries of human
belief and trust in its existence--always somewhat marginalaO"began to
fail altogether.
The King of the Silver River grieved that this should be. He did not
grieve for himself; he was beyond that. He grieved for the people of the
Four Lands, the mortal men and women for whom the magic of faerie was in
danger of being lost forever. The Gardens had been their haven in the
land of the Silver River for centuries, and he had been the spirit
friend who protected its people. He had watched over them, had given
them a sense of peace and well-being that transcended physical
boundaries, and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were still
accessible in some corners of the world to all. Now that was ended. Now
he could protect no one. The evil of the Shadowen, the poison they had
inflicted upon the Four Lands, had eroded his own strength until he was
virtually sealed within his Gardens, powerless to go to the aid of those
he had worked so long to protect.
He stared out into the ruin of the world for a time as his despair
worked its relentless will on him. Memories played hide-and-seek in his
mind. The Druids had protected the Four Lands once. But the Druids were
gone. A handful of descendents of the Elven house of Shannara had been
champions of the Races for generations, wielding the remnants of the
magic of faerie. But they were all dead.
He forced his despair away, replacing it with hope. The Druids could
come again. And there were new generations of the old house of Shannara.
The King of the Silver River knew most of what was happening in the Four
Lands even if he could not go out into them. Allanon's shade had
summoned a scattering of Shannara children to recover the lost magic,
and perhaps they yet would if they could survive long enough to find a
means to do so. But all of them had been placed in extreme peril. All
were in danger of dying, threatened in the east, south, and west by the
Shadowen and in the north by Uhl Belk, the Stone King.
The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed to save the
Shannara childrenaO"an act of magic, one so powerful and intricate that
nothing could prevent it from succeeding, one that would transcend the
barriers that their enemies had created, that would break past the
screen of deceit and lies that hid everything from the four on whom so
much depended.
Yes, four, not three. Even Allanon did not understand the whole of what
was meant to be.
He turned and made his way back toward the center of his refuge. He let
the songs of the birds, the fragrances of the flowers, and the warmth of
the air soothe him as he walked and he drew in through his senses the
color and taste and feel of all that lay about him. There was virtually
nothing that he could not do within his Gardens. Yet his magic was
needed without. He knew what was required. In preparation he took the
form of the old man that showed himself occasionally to the world
beyond. His gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, his
eyes dimmed, and his body ached with the feelings of life fading. The
birdsong stopped, and the small animals that had crowded close edged
quickly away. He forced himself to separate from everything he had
evolved into, receding into what he might have been, needing momentarily
to feel human mortality in order to know better how to give that part of
himself that was needed.
When he reached the heart of his domain, he stopped. There was a pond of
clearest water fed by a small stream. A unicorn drank from it. The earth
that cradled the pond was dark and rich. Tiny, delicate flowers that had
no name grew at the water's edge; they were the color of new snow.
A small, intricately formed tree lifted out of a scattering of violet
grasses at the pond's far end, its delicate green leaves laced with
red. From a pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmered
brightly in the sunshine.
The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the presence of the
life that surrounded him and willed himself to become one with it. When
he had done so, when everything had threaded itself through the human
form he had taken as if joined by bits and pieces of invisible lacing,
he reached out to gather it all in. His hands, wrinkled human skin and
brittle bones, lifted and summoned his magic, and the feelings of age
and time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.
The little tree came to him first, uprooted, transported, and set down
before him, the framework of bones on which he would build. Slowly it
bent to take the shape he desired, leaves folding close against the
branches, wrapping and sealing away. The earth came next, handfuls
lifted by invisible scoops to place against the tree, padding and
defining. Then came the ores for muscle, the waters for fluids, and the
petals of the tiny flowers for skin. He gathered silk from the
unicorn's mane for hair and black pearls for eyes. The magic
twisted and wove, and slowly his creation took form.
When he was finished, the girl who stood before him was perfect in every
way but one. She was not yet alive.
He cast about momentarily, then selected the dove. He took it out of the
air and placed it still living inside the girlaO(TM)s breast where it
became her heart. Quickly he moved forward to embrace her and breathed
his own life into her. Then he stepped back to wait.
The girl's breast rose and fell, and her limbs twitched. Her eyes
fluttered open, coal black as they peered out from her delicate white
features. She was small boned and finely wrought like a piece of paper
art smoothed and shaped so that the edges and corners were replaced by
curves. Her hair was so white it seemed silver; there was a glitter to
it that suggested the presence of that precious metal.
"Who am I?" she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered of
tiny streams and small night sounds.
"You are my daughter," the King of the Silver River answered,
discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he had thought long
since lost.
He did not bother telling her that she was an elemental, an earth child
created of his magic. She could sense what she was from the instincts
with which he had endowed her. No other explanation was needed.
She took a tentative step forward, then another. Finding that she could
walk, she began to move more quickly, testing her abilities in various
ways as she circled her father, glancing cautiously, shyly at the old
man as she went. She looked around curiously, taking in the sights,
smells, sounds, and tastes of the Gardens, discovering in them a kinship
that she could not immediately explain.
"Are these Gardens my mother?" she asked suddenly, and he told her
they were. aOoeAm I a part of you both?aO? she asked, and he told her
yes.
"Come with me," he said gently.
Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the manner of a
parent and child, looking into flowers, watching for the quick movement
of birds and animals, studying the vast, intricate designs of the
tangl...
dawn of the age of faerie and looked out over the world of mortal men. What he saw left him sad and
discouraged. Everywhere the land sickened and died, rich black earth turning to dust, grassy plains
withering, forests becoming huge stands of deadwood, and lakes and rivers either stagnating or
drying away. Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickened
and died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment they
relied upon grew poisoned. Even the air had begun to turn foul.
And all the while, the King of the Silver River thought, the Shadowen
grow stronger.
His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the cyclamen that
grew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just beyond, dogwood and
cherry farther back, fuchsia and hibiscus, rhododendrons and dahlias,
beds of iris, azaleas, daffodils, roses, and a hundred other varieties
of flowers and flowering plants that were always in bloom, a profusion
of colors that stretched away into the distance until lost from sight.
There were animals to be seen as well, both large and small, creatures
whose evolution could be traced back to that distant time when all
things lived in harmony and peace.
In the present world, the world of the Four Lands and the Races that had
evolved out of the chaos and destruction of the Great Wars, that time
was all but forgotten. The King of the Silver River was its sole
remnant. He had been alive when the world was new and its first
creatures were just being born. He had been young then, and there had
been many like him. Now he was old and he was the last of his kind.
Everything that had been, save for the Gardens in which he lived, had
passed away. The Gardens alone survived, changeless, sustained by the
magic of faerie. The Word had given the Gardens to the King of the
Silver River and told him to tend them, to keep them as a reminder of
what had once been and what might one day be again. The world without
would evolve as it must, but the Gardens would remain forever the same.
Even so, they were shrinking. It was not so much physical as spiritual.
The boundaries of the Gardens were fixed and unalterable, for the
Gardens existed in a plane of being unaffected by changes in the world
of mortal men. The Gardens were a presence rather than a place. Yet that
presence was diminished by the sickening of the world to which it was
tied, for the work of the Gardens and their tender was to keep that
world strong. As the Four Lands grew poisoned, the work became harder,
the effects of that work grew shorter, and the boundaries of human
belief and trust in its existence--always somewhat marginalaO"began to
fail altogether.
The King of the Silver River grieved that this should be. He did not
grieve for himself; he was beyond that. He grieved for the people of the
Four Lands, the mortal men and women for whom the magic of faerie was in
danger of being lost forever. The Gardens had been their haven in the
land of the Silver River for centuries, and he had been the spirit
friend who protected its people. He had watched over them, had given
them a sense of peace and well-being that transcended physical
boundaries, and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were still
accessible in some corners of the world to all. Now that was ended. Now
he could protect no one. The evil of the Shadowen, the poison they had
inflicted upon the Four Lands, had eroded his own strength until he was
virtually sealed within his Gardens, powerless to go to the aid of those
he had worked so long to protect.
He stared out into the ruin of the world for a time as his despair
worked its relentless will on him. Memories played hide-and-seek in his
mind. The Druids had protected the Four Lands once. But the Druids were
gone. A handful of descendents of the Elven house of Shannara had been
champions of the Races for generations, wielding the remnants of the
magic of faerie. But they were all dead.
He forced his despair away, replacing it with hope. The Druids could
come again. And there were new generations of the old house of Shannara.
The King of the Silver River knew most of what was happening in the Four
Lands even if he could not go out into them. Allanon's shade had
summoned a scattering of Shannara children to recover the lost magic,
and perhaps they yet would if they could survive long enough to find a
means to do so. But all of them had been placed in extreme peril. All
were in danger of dying, threatened in the east, south, and west by the
Shadowen and in the north by Uhl Belk, the Stone King.
The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed to save the
Shannara childrenaO"an act of magic, one so powerful and intricate that
nothing could prevent it from succeeding, one that would transcend the
barriers that their enemies had created, that would break past the
screen of deceit and lies that hid everything from the four on whom so
much depended.
Yes, four, not three. Even Allanon did not understand the whole of what
was meant to be.
He turned and made his way back toward the center of his refuge. He let
the songs of the birds, the fragrances of the flowers, and the warmth of
the air soothe him as he walked and he drew in through his senses the
color and taste and feel of all that lay about him. There was virtually
nothing that he could not do within his Gardens. Yet his magic was
needed without. He knew what was required. In preparation he took the
form of the old man that showed himself occasionally to the world
beyond. His gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, his
eyes dimmed, and his body ached with the feelings of life fading. The
birdsong stopped, and the small animals that had crowded close edged
quickly away. He forced himself to separate from everything he had
evolved into, receding into what he might have been, needing momentarily
to feel human mortality in order to know better how to give that part of
himself that was needed.
When he reached the heart of his domain, he stopped. There was a pond of
clearest water fed by a small stream. A unicorn drank from it. The earth
that cradled the pond was dark and rich. Tiny, delicate flowers that had
no name grew at the water's edge; they were the color of new snow.
A small, intricately formed tree lifted out of a scattering of violet
grasses at the pond's far end, its delicate green leaves laced with
red. From a pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmered
brightly in the sunshine.
The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the presence of the
life that surrounded him and willed himself to become one with it. When
he had done so, when everything had threaded itself through the human
form he had taken as if joined by bits and pieces of invisible lacing,
he reached out to gather it all in. His hands, wrinkled human skin and
brittle bones, lifted and summoned his magic, and the feelings of age
and time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.
The little tree came to him first, uprooted, transported, and set down
before him, the framework of bones on which he would build. Slowly it
bent to take the shape he desired, leaves folding close against the
branches, wrapping and sealing away. The earth came next, handfuls
lifted by invisible scoops to place against the tree, padding and
defining. Then came the ores for muscle, the waters for fluids, and the
petals of the tiny flowers for skin. He gathered silk from the
unicorn's mane for hair and black pearls for eyes. The magic
twisted and wove, and slowly his creation took form.
When he was finished, the girl who stood before him was perfect in every
way but one. She was not yet alive.
He cast about momentarily, then selected the dove. He took it out of the
air and placed it still living inside the girlaO(TM)s breast where it
became her heart. Quickly he moved forward to embrace her and breathed
his own life into her. Then he stepped back to wait.
The girl's breast rose and fell, and her limbs twitched. Her eyes
fluttered open, coal black as they peered out from her delicate white
features. She was small boned and finely wrought like a piece of paper
art smoothed and shaped so that the edges and corners were replaced by
curves. Her hair was so white it seemed silver; there was a glitter to
it that suggested the presence of that precious metal.
"Who am I?" she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered of
tiny streams and small night sounds.
"You are my daughter," the King of the Silver River answered,
discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he had thought long
since lost.
He did not bother telling her that she was an elemental, an earth child
created of his magic. She could sense what she was from the instincts
with which he had endowed her. No other explanation was needed.
She took a tentative step forward, then another. Finding that she could
walk, she began to move more quickly, testing her abilities in various
ways as she circled her father, glancing cautiously, shyly at the old
man as she went. She looked around curiously, taking in the sights,
smells, sounds, and tastes of the Gardens, discovering in them a kinship
that she could not immediately explain.
"Are these Gardens my mother?" she asked suddenly, and he told her
they were. aOoeAm I a part of you both?aO? she asked, and he told her
yes.
"Come with me," he said gently.
Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the manner of a
parent and child, looking into flowers, watching for the quick movement
of birds and animals, studying the vast, intricate designs of the
tangl...
Revue de presse
"If Harry Potter has given you a thirst for fantasy and you have not discovered the magic of Terry Brooks, you are in for a treat."
--Rocky Mountain News
"If you were delighted and entranced by Michael Ende's The Never Ending Story, you will definitely want to sample one of more of Terry Brooks's books."
--Santa Cruz Sentinel
--Rocky Mountain News
"If you were delighted and entranced by Michael Ende's The Never Ending Story, you will definitely want to sample one of more of Terry Brooks's books."
--Santa Cruz Sentinel
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The King of the Silver River stood at the edge of the Gardens that had been his domain since the dawn of the age of faerie and looked out over the world of mortal men. Lire la première page
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4.4 étoiles sur 5
80 commentaires
5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
5.0 étoiles sur 5
My favourite book of all time...
27 novembre 2005
Par Contra Rose
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Poche
This book is absolutely beautiful.
The first book I ever read of Terry Brooks was The Elfstones of Shannara. i then hopped onto Wishsong of Shannara (Being, as I was, afraid to tackle Sword of Shannara because there were just so many pages!) and then I started the Heritage of Shannara. No other book has left such an impact on me as the Druid of Shannara and I have read hundreds of books since then. I have since graduated onto the new Master of the Genre (George R R Martin) but this novel will always occupy the number one spot in my heart. The character of Quickening has got to be one of the most astonishing, anywhere in any kind of novel, and her tragic romance with Morgan Leah will make even the strongest of hearts cry. Even now, at the age of 24 a full ten years since I first read the book, I always pray that Quickening and Morgan Leah somehow get together. I would recommend this book to anybody and everybody. Excellent.
The first book I ever read of Terry Brooks was The Elfstones of Shannara. i then hopped onto Wishsong of Shannara (Being, as I was, afraid to tackle Sword of Shannara because there were just so many pages!) and then I started the Heritage of Shannara. No other book has left such an impact on me as the Druid of Shannara and I have read hundreds of books since then. I have since graduated onto the new Master of the Genre (George R R Martin) but this novel will always occupy the number one spot in my heart. The character of Quickening has got to be one of the most astonishing, anywhere in any kind of novel, and her tragic romance with Morgan Leah will make even the strongest of hearts cry. Even now, at the age of 24 a full ten years since I first read the book, I always pray that Quickening and Morgan Leah somehow get together. I would recommend this book to anybody and everybody. Excellent.
5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
4.0 étoiles sur 5
Hmmm
29 avril 2005
Par Seminary Man
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Poche
Written as the second part of a four part series, Terry Brooks' The Druid of Shannara continues a larger series begun by the author in 1977 with the publishing of The Sword of Shannara. In its second incarnation, the world of Shannara is thrown into chaos, not by evil magic seeking to dominate, but rather by evil magic that wishes to leech the life force from the Four Lands. This departure is the first of many characteristics that ensures the longevity of Mr. Brooks' career; a career that is still growing.
The first of these features is adaptation. Brooks is able to use the same setting for all of his stories. He spaces the events of the first and second series four hundred years apart so that he can continue to use pre-existing themes in new situations. He retains the Leah and Ohmsford families as the protectors of the Four Lands, but the evil they fight is not the evil of the Warlock Lord. In addition, new players are introduced to the story. These include the Federation and the Freeborn Liberation Movement, both of whom will have lasting effects of the Four Lands for centuries to come.
Mr. Brooks' ability to expand and revise his own creation ensures that the plot of his works are never boring. It the constant change also means that readers are always in the same place. What I mean is that someone who did not read the first series could easily begin the second series and not be completely lost (I should know because I started with the third series). The evolution of the world and the characters in the world leads to increased sophistication and development as the novel progresses.
Characters in the novel also portray unique elements in Brooks' style. Readers can easily connect with the druid Walker, who studies the ways of Paranor against his own will. Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River, has the gift of healing, usually expressed by her calm, soothing, words which warm and inspire the company into action. There is also the rash character of Par Ohmsford who makes decisions irrationally and then suffers the consequences of hasty plans. Then there is Par's alter-ego and brother, Coll, who supports his brother and yet adds a hint of rationalism to the story.
Readers connect to characters. Brooks understands this concept and creates for each character a soul that mirrors emotions. It is very easy to feel the grief when a character dies in and Terry Brooks novel, because the reader follows that character from the beginning of their journey, where he or she is usually young and irresponsible, to an emotional maturity that is gained only through experience, and too often, loss.
Brooks writes in a style that moves from one event to the other. He does not waste time exploring unimportant information, and if an event has not bearing on the plot, he does not include it. This quick moving adventure enthralls most readers, who want more that nothing else, to see the conclusion of the novel to learn the fates of the characters.
Finally, Brooks has created a world for modern adventurers. The possibilities of one's imagination are endless, it only needs a jump start every once and a while. Brooks' continuing evolution of the Shanarra series is proof of the power of imagination. He has created a world that the reader has no map to except in his own mind. Brooks presents characters to fill this world that readers can easily associate with either their own lives, or the lives of someone they know. A combination of all of these factors has ensured he survival of the Shanarra series, and provides the foundation for its future growth.
The first of these features is adaptation. Brooks is able to use the same setting for all of his stories. He spaces the events of the first and second series four hundred years apart so that he can continue to use pre-existing themes in new situations. He retains the Leah and Ohmsford families as the protectors of the Four Lands, but the evil they fight is not the evil of the Warlock Lord. In addition, new players are introduced to the story. These include the Federation and the Freeborn Liberation Movement, both of whom will have lasting effects of the Four Lands for centuries to come.
Mr. Brooks' ability to expand and revise his own creation ensures that the plot of his works are never boring. It the constant change also means that readers are always in the same place. What I mean is that someone who did not read the first series could easily begin the second series and not be completely lost (I should know because I started with the third series). The evolution of the world and the characters in the world leads to increased sophistication and development as the novel progresses.
Characters in the novel also portray unique elements in Brooks' style. Readers can easily connect with the druid Walker, who studies the ways of Paranor against his own will. Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River, has the gift of healing, usually expressed by her calm, soothing, words which warm and inspire the company into action. There is also the rash character of Par Ohmsford who makes decisions irrationally and then suffers the consequences of hasty plans. Then there is Par's alter-ego and brother, Coll, who supports his brother and yet adds a hint of rationalism to the story.
Readers connect to characters. Brooks understands this concept and creates for each character a soul that mirrors emotions. It is very easy to feel the grief when a character dies in and Terry Brooks novel, because the reader follows that character from the beginning of their journey, where he or she is usually young and irresponsible, to an emotional maturity that is gained only through experience, and too often, loss.
Brooks writes in a style that moves from one event to the other. He does not waste time exploring unimportant information, and if an event has not bearing on the plot, he does not include it. This quick moving adventure enthralls most readers, who want more that nothing else, to see the conclusion of the novel to learn the fates of the characters.
Finally, Brooks has created a world for modern adventurers. The possibilities of one's imagination are endless, it only needs a jump start every once and a while. Brooks' continuing evolution of the Shanarra series is proof of the power of imagination. He has created a world that the reader has no map to except in his own mind. Brooks presents characters to fill this world that readers can easily associate with either their own lives, or the lives of someone they know. A combination of all of these factors has ensured he survival of the Shanarra series, and provides the foundation for its future growth.
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
5.0 étoiles sur 5
What a book!
6 juin 2000
Par Un client
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Poche
The Druid of shannara is perhaps the finest of the heritage of shannara series. While the entire series is an interesting, well written adventure, the Druid showcases Mr. Brooks' finest talents. In many ways darker and meaner than the rest of the series, it is not overly so. Pe Ell, a master assassin working for the evil Shadowen, is quite possibly the most sinister character Brooks has ever created. despite the heroism of the protagonists and the 'righting the wrongs' theme, the assassin's shadow looms over the heroes through the whole book. The line drawn between the members of the little band of people is often toes, sometimes crossed and never certain. It creates an excellent air of tension and provides for excellent dialogue and conflict for the characters. This conflict, coupled with the continuing self doubt and inner struggle of the druid, Walker Boh, provide for some of the best parts of the story. The characters always seem as though they are on the edge of personal and world wide tragedy, and remain human through out. The characters react as human beings would in every situation. The feeling of reality prevails and engrosses the reader totally. I cannot recommend this book enough.
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