by Terry Brooks
What Par didn’t tell Padishar was how Rimmer Dall had warned him that, like the First Seeker, Par, too, was a Shadowen. Because if it was the truth …
“I carry it, Padishar,” he finished, dismissing the prospect, gesturing instead toward the dusty blade where it leaned against the bureau, “because I keep thinking that sooner or later I’ll be able to figure out whether or not it is real.”
Padishar frowned darkly. “There’s a trick being played here somewhere. Rimmer Dall’s no friend to anyone. Either the blade is a fake or he has good reason to believe that you can’t make use of it.”
If I’m a Shadowen …
Par swallowed against his fear. “I know. And so far I can’t. I keep testing it, trying to invoke its magic, but nothing happens.” He paused. “Only once, when I was in the Pit, after Coll … I picked up the Sword from where I had dropped it, and the touch of it burned me like live coals. Just for a minute.” He was thinking it through again, remembering. “The wishsong’s magic was still live. I was still holding that fire sword. Then the magic disappeared, and the Sword of Shannara became cool to the touch again.”
The big man nodded. “That’s it, then, lad. Something about the wishsong’s magic interferes with use of the Sword of Shannara. It makes some sense, doesn’t it? Why not a clash of magics? If it’s so, Rimmer Dall could give you the Sword and never have to worry one whit.”
Par shook his head. “But how would he know it would work that way?” He was thinking now that it was more likely the First Seeker knew the Sword was useless to a Shadowen. “And what about Allanon? Wouldn’t he know as well? Why would he send me in search of the Sword if I can’t use it?”
Padishar had no answers to any of these questions, of course, so for a moment the two simply stared at each other. Then the big man said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Par looked away momentarily, then back again. “It was Damson who kept me from …” He caught his breath sharply. “Who helped me get past the pain when I thought it was too much to bear.” He smiled faintly, sadly at the other. “I love her, Padishar. We have to get her back.”
Padishar nodded. “If she’s lost, lad. We don’t know anything for sure.” His voice sounded uncertain, and his eyes were worried and distant.
“Losing Coll is as much as I can stand.” Par would not let his gaze drop.
“I know. We’ll see her safely back, I promise.”
Padishar reached for the ale jug, poured a healthy measure into his own cup, and, as an afterthought, added a small amount to Par’s. He drank deeply and set the cup down carefully. Par saw that he had said as much as he wanted to on the matter.
“Tell me of Morgan,” Par asked quietly.
“Ah, the Highlander.” Padishar brightened immediately. “Saved my life in the Pit after you and your brother escaped. Saved it again—along with everyone else’s—at the Jut. Bad business, that.”
And he proceeded to relate what had happened—how the Sword of Leah had been shattered in their escape from the Pit and its Shadowen, how the Federation had tracked them to the Jut and laid siege, how the Creepers had come, how Morgan had divined that Teel was a Shadowen, how the Highlander, Steff, and he had tracked Teel deep into the caves behind the Jut where Morgan had faced Teel alone and found just enough of his broken Sword’s magic to destroy her, how the free-born had slipped away from the Federation trap, and how Morgan had left them then to go back to Culhaven and the Dwarves so that he might keep his promise to the dying Steff.
“I gave him my promise that I would go in search of you,” Padishar concluded. “But I was forced to lie quiet at Firerim Reach first while my broken arm mended. Six weeks. Still tender, though I don’t show it. We were supposed to meet Axhind and his Rock Trolls at the Jannisson two weeks past, but I got word to them to make it eight.” He sighed. “So much time lost and so little of it to lose. It’s one step forward and two back. Anyway, I finally healed enough to keep my end of the bargain and come find you.” He laughed wryly. “It wasn’t easy. Everywhere I looked the Federation was waiting.”
“Teel, then, you think?” Par asked.
The other nodded. “Had to be, lad. Killed Hirehone after stealing his identity and his secrets. Hirehone was trusted; he knew the safe holes. Teel—the Shadowen—must have gotten that information from him, drained it from his mind.” He spat. “Black things! And Rimmer Dall would pretend to be your friend! What lies!”
Or worse, the truth, Par thought, but didn’t say it. Par feared that his affinity with the First Seeker, whatever its nature, let Rimmer Dall glean the secrets he would otherwise keep hidden—even those he was not immediately privy to, those kept by his friends and companions.
It was a wild thought. Too wild to be believed. But then much of what he had encountered these past few weeks was of the same sort, wasn’t it?
Better to believe that it was all Teel, he told himself.
“Anyway,” Padishar was saying, “I’ve set guards to watch the Reach ever since we settled there, because Hirehone knew of it as well, and that means the Shadowen may know too. But so far all’s been quiet. A week hence we keep the meeting with the Trolls, and if they agree to join we have an army to be reckoned with, the beginning of a true resistance, the core of a fire that will burn right through the Federation and set us free at last.”
“At the Jannisson still?” Par asked, thinking of other things.
“We leave as soon as I return with you. And. Damson,” he added quickly, firmly. “A week is time enough to do it all.” He didn’t sound entirely sure.
“But Morgan’s not come back yet?” Par pressed.
Padishar shook his head slowly. “Don’t worry about your friend, lad. He’s tough as leather and swift as light. And determined. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he’ll be fine. We’ll see him one day soon.”
Oddly enough, Par was inclined to agree. If ever there was someone who could find a way out of any mess, it was Morgan Leah. He pictured his friend’s clever eyes, his ready smile, the hint of mischief in his voice, and found that he missed him very much. Another of his journey’s casualties, lost somewhere along the way, stripped from him like excess baggage. Except the analogy was wrong—his friends and his brother had given their lives to keep him safe. All of them, at one time or another. And what had he given them in return? What had he done to justify such sacrifice?
What good had he accomplished?
His eyes fell once more upon the Sword of Shannara, tracing the lines of the upraised hand with its burning torch. Truth. The Sword of Shannara was a talisman for truth. And the truth he most needed to discover just now was whether this blade for which so much had been given up was real.
How could he do that?
Across from him Padishar stretched and yawned. “Time to get some rest, Par Ohmsford,” he advised, rising. “We need our strength for what lies ahead.”
He moved to the couch on which the stuffed animals were seated, gathered them up perfunctorily, and plopped them down on a nearby chair. Turning back to the couch, he settled himself comfortably on the worn leather cushions, boots hanging off one end, head cradled in the crook of one arm. In moments he was snoring.
Par stayed awake for a time watching him, letting the dark thoughts settle in his mind, keeping his resolve from scattering like leaves in a wind storm. He was afraid, but the fear was nothing new. It was the eroding of hope that unsettled him most, the crumbling of his certainty that whatever happened he would find a way to deal with it. He was beginning to wonder if that was so anymore.
He rose finally and went to the chair where Padishar had dumped the stuffed animals. Carefully he gathered them up—Chalt, Lida, Westra, Everlind and the others—and carried them to where the Sword of Shannara leaned up against the bureau. One by one, he arranged them about the Sword, placing them at watch—as if by doing so they might aid him in keeping the demons from his sleep.
When he was finished, he walked to the back of the Mole’s lair, found
some discarded cushions and old blankets, made himself a pallet in a corner dominated by a collection of old paintings, and lay down.
He was still listening to the sound of water dripping when he finally drifted off to sleep.
When he woke again, he was alone. The couch where Padishar had been sleeping was empty and the Mole’s chambers were silent. All of the candles were extinguished save for one. Par blinked against the sharp pinprick of light, then peered about into the gloom, wondering where Padishar had gone. He rose, stretched, walked to the candle, used it to light the others, and watched the darkness shrink to scattered shadows.
He had no idea how long he had slept; time lost all meaning within these catacombs. He was hungry again, so he made himself a meal from some bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, and consumed it at the three-legged table. As he ate, he stared fixedly across the room at the Sword of Shannara, propped in the corner, surrounded by the Mole’s children.
Speak to me, he thought. Why won’t you speak to me?
He finished eating, shoving the food in his mouth without tasting it, drinking the ale without interest, his eyes and his mind focused on the Sword. He pushed back from the table, walked over to the blade, lifted it away from its resting place, and carried it back to his chair. He balanced it on his knees for a time, staring down at it. Then finally he pulled it free of its scabbard and held it up before him, turning it this way and that, letting the candlelight reflect off its polished surface.
His eyes glittered with frustration.
Talisman or trickster—which are you?
If the former, something was decidedly wrong between them. He was the descendant of Shea Ohmsford and his Elven blood was as good as that of his famous ancestor; he should have been able to call up the power of the Sword with ease. If it was the Sword in truth, of course. Otherwise … He shook his head angrily. No, this was the Sword of Shannara. It was. He could feel it in his bones. Everything he knew of the Sword, everything he had learned of it, all the songs he had sung of it over the years, told him that this was it. Rimmer Dall would not have given him an imitation; the First Seeker was too eager that Par accept his guidance in the matter of his magic to risk alienating him with a lie that would eventually be discovered. Whatever else Rimmer Dall might be, he was clever—far too clever to play such a simple game …
Par left the thought unfinished, not as certain as he wanted to be that he was right. Still, it felt right, his reasoning sound, his sense of things balanced. Rimmer Dall wanted him to accept that he was a Shadowen. A Shadowen could not use the Elven magic of the blade because …
Because why?
The truth would destroy him, perhaps, and his own magic would not allow it?
But when the Sword of Shannara had burned him in the Pit after he had destroyed Coll and the Shadowen with him, hadn’t it been the blade’s magic that had reacted to his rather than the other way around? Which magic was resisting which?
He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching tightly about the Sword’s carved handle. The raised hand with its torch pressed against his palm, the lines sharp and clear. What was the problem between them? Why couldn’t he find the answer?
He shoved the blade back into its scabbard and sat unmoving in the candle-lit silence, thinking. Allanon had given him the charge to find the Sword of Shannara. Him, not Wren or Walker, and they had Elven Shannara blood as well, didn’t they? Allanon had sent him. Familiar questions repeated themselves in his mind. Wouldn’t the Druid have known if such a charge was pointless? Even as a shade, wouldn’t he have been able to sense that Par’s magic was a danger, that Par himself was the enemy?
Unless Rimmer Dall was right and the Shadowen weren’t the enemy—the Druids were. Or perhaps they were all enemies of a sort, combatants for control of the magic, Shadowen and Druid, both fighting to fill that void that had been created at Allanon’s death, that vacuum left by the fading of the last real magic.
Was that possible?
Par’s brow furrowed. He ran his fingers along the Sword’s pommel and down the bindings of the scabbard.
Why was the truth so difficult to discover?
He found himself wondering what had become of all the others who had started out on the journey to the Hadeshorn. Steff and Teel were dead. Morgan was missing. Where was Cogline? What had become of him after the meeting with Allanon and the giving of the charges? Par found himself wishing suddenly that he could speak with the old man about the Sword. Surely Cogline would be able to make some sense of all this. And what of Wren and that giant Rover? What of Walker Boh? Had they changed their minds and gone on to fulfill their charges as he had?
As he thought he had.
His eyes, staring into the space before him, lowered again to the Sword. There was one thing more. Now that he had possession of the blade—perhaps—what was he supposed to do with it? Giving Allanon the benefit of the doubt on who was good and who was bad and whether Par was doing the right thing, what purpose was the Sword of Shannara supposed to serve?
What truth was it supposed to reveal?
He was sick of questions without answers, of secrets being kept from him, of lies and twisted half-truths that circled him like scavengers waiting to feast. If he could break just a single link of this chain of uncertainty and confusion that bound him, if he could sever but a single tie …
The door slipped open across the room, and Padishar appeared through the opening. “There you are,” he announced cheerfully. “Rested, I hope?”
Par nodded, the Sword still balanced on his knees. Padishar glanced down at it as he crossed the room. Par let his grip loosen. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Midday. The Mole hasn’t come back. I went out because I thought I might be able to learn something about Damson on my own. Ask a few questions. Poke my nose in a few holes.” He shook his head. “It was a waste of time. If the Federation has her, they’re keeping it quiet.”
He slumped down on the sofa, looking worn and discouraged. “If he isn’t back by nightfall, I’ll go out again.”
Par leaned forward. “Not without me.”
Padishar glanced at him and grunted. “I suppose not. Well, Valeman, perhaps we can at least avoid another trip down into the Pit …”
He stopped, aware suddenly of what that implied, then looked away uncomfortably. Par lifted the Sword of Shannara from his knees and placed it next to him on the floor. “She told me that you were her father, Padishar.”
The big man stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Love seems to cause all sorts of foolish talk.”
He rose and walked to the table. “I’ll have something to eat now, I think.” He wheeled about abruptly, and his voice was as hard as stone. “Don’t ever repeat what you just said. Not to anyone. Ever.”
He waited until Par nodded, then turned his attention to putting together a meal. He ate from the same scraps of food as the Valeman, adding a bit of dried beef he scavenged from a food locker. Par watched him without comment, wondering how long father and daughter had kept their secret, thinking how hard it must have been for both of them. Padishar’s chiseled features lowered into shadow as he ate, but his eyes glittered like bits of white fire.
When he was finished, he faced Par once more. “She promised—she swore—never to tell anyone.”
Par looked down at his clasped hands. “She told me because we both needed to have some reason to trust the other. We were sharing secrets to gain that trust. It was right before we went down into the Pit that last time.”
Padishar sighed. “If they find out who she is—”
“No,” Par interrupted quickly. “We’ll have her back before then.” He met the other’s penetrating gaze. “We will, Padishar.”
Padishar Creel nodded. “We will, indeed, Par Ohmsford. We will, indeed.”
It was several hours later when the Mole appeared soundlessly through the entryway, sliding out of the dark like one of its shadows, eyes blinking against the candlelight. His fur stood on en
d, bristling from his worn clothes and giving him the look of a prickly scrub. Wordlessly he moved to extinguish several of the lights, leaving the larger part of his chambers shrouded once more in the darkness with which he was comfortable. He scooted past to where his children sat clustered on the floor, cooed softly to them for a moment, gathered them up tenderly, and carried them back to the sofa.
He was still arranging them when Padishar’s patience ran out.
“What did you find out?” the big man demanded heatedly. “Tell us, if you think you can spare the time!”
The Mole shifted without turning. “She is a prisoner.”
Par felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced quickly at Padishar and found the big man on his feet, hands clenched.
“Where?” Padishar whispered.
The Mole took a moment to finish settling Chalt against a cushion and then turned. “In the old Legion barracks at the back of the inner wall. Lovely Damson is kept in the south watchtower, all alone.” He shuffled his feet. “It took me a long time to find her.”
Padishar came forward and knelt so that they were at eye level. The scratches on his face were as red as fire. “Have they …” He groped for the words. “Is she all right?”
The Mole shook his head. “I could not reach her.”
Par came forward as well. “You didn’t see her?”
“No.” The Mole blinked. “But she is there. I climbed through the tower walls. She was just on the other side. I could hear her breathe through the stone. She was sleeping.”
The Valeman and the leader of the free-born exchanged a quick glance. “How closely is she watched?” Padishar pressed.
The Mole brought his hands to his eyes and rubbed gently with his knuckles. “Soldiers stand watch at her door, at the foot of the stairs leading up, at the gate leading in. They patrol the halls and walkways. There are many.” He blinked. “There are Shadowen as well.”