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came over slowly and remained standing, his eyes on the dark face as the big man smiled slowly down at him, the familiar enigmatic twist at the corners of his mouth.
    “I was just wondering where you had gone,” Flick began, speaking to his brother, “and didn’t mean to interrupt …”
    “You are not interrupting anything,” Shea replied quickly. But Allanon seemed to disagree.
    “This conversation was for your ears alone,” he declared flatly. “If your brother chooses to stay, he will have decided his own fate in the days to come. I would strongly suggest that he not remain to hear the rest of our discussion, but forget that we ever talked. Still, it is his own choice.”
    The brothers looked at each other, unable to believe that the tall man was serious. But his grim face indicated that he was not joking, and for a moment both men hesitated, reluctant to say anything. Finally Flick spoke.
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but Shea and I are brothers and what happens to one must happen to both. If he’s in any trouble, I should share it with him—it’s my own choice, I’m sure.”
    Shea stared at him in amazement. He had never heard Flick sound more positive about anything in his entire life. He felt proud of his brother and smiled up at him gratefully. Flick winked back quickly and sat down, not looking at Allanon. The tall traveler stroked his small, dark beard with a lean hand and smiled quite unexpectedly.
    “Indeed, the choice is your own, and you have proven yourself a brother by your words. But it is deeds that make the difference. You may regret the choice in the days to come….”
    He trailed off, lost in thought as he studied the bowed head of Flick for several long moments before turning to Shea.
    “Well, I cannot begin my story again just for your brother. He will have to follow as best he can. Now tell me what you know of Brona.”
    Shea thought silently for a few minutes and then shrugged.
    “I really don’t know much of anything about him. He was a myth, as you said, the fictional leader of the uprising in the First War of the Races. He was supposed to have been a Druid who left the Council and used his own evil power to master the minds of his followers. Historically, he was never seen, never captured, or killed in the final battle. He never existed.”
    “Historically accurate, I’m sure,” muttered Allanon. “What do you know of him in connection with the Second War of the Races?”
    Shea smiled briefly at the question.
    “Well, legend has it that he was the central force behind that war also, but it turned out to be just another myth. He was supposed to be the same creature who had organized the armies of Man in the first war, except in this one he was called the Warlock Lord—the evil counterpart to the Druid Bremen. I believe Bremen was supposed to have killed him in the second war, however. But all that was only fantasy.”
    Flick hastened to nod his agreement, but Allanon said nothing. Shea waited for some form of confirmation, openly amused by the whole subject.
    “Where is all this talk taking us anyway?” he asked after a moment.
    Allanon glanced down at him sharply, cocking one dark eyebrow in wonder.
    “Your patience is remarkably limited, Shea. After all, we have just covered in a matter of minutes the history of a thousand years. However, if you think you can restrain yourself for a few moments longer, I believe I can promise you that your question will be answered.”
    Shea nodded, feeling no little mortification at the reprimand. It was not the words themselves that hurt; it was the way Allanon said them—with that mocking smile and ill-concealed sarcasm. The Valeman regained his composure quickly, though, and shrugged his willingness to allow the historian to continue at his own pace.
    “Very well,” the other acknowledged. “I shall try to complete our discussion quickly. What we have spoken of up to this point has been background history to