by Terry Brooks
The afternoon dragged by. Coll rested more frequently now, light-headed in the swelter, his concentration wavering. Sleep would help, but he had determined to go on until nightfall. He saw Par appear now and again in the shimmer of heat that rose off the saw grass, heard him speaking and saw him move. Memories came and went, mixing with the images and evaporating when he tried to venture too close. He needed a better plan, he told himself. It was not enough simply to return to Southwatch. He would never be able to rescue Par on his own. He needed help. What, he wondered, had happened to Morgan Leah and the others? What had become of Walker Boh and Wren? Where was Damson? Was she searching for Par, too? Padishar Creel would help if Coll could find him. But Padishar could be anywhere.
He walked into the early twilight and saw the Silver River appear ahead, a bright thread weaving inland. He skirted a mire formed by the poisoning of a shallow inlet, tepid waters green and murky, vegetation gray with sickness, the stench of its dying heavy on the air. Breathing through his mouth, he forced his way past, anxious to get on.
As he came out from a stand of pine he saw a wagon and stopped.
Five men seated about a cooking fire looked up. Hard-faced and rough, they stared at him without moving. There was meat cooking on a spit and broth in a pot. The smells reached out to Coll enticingly. A team of mules unhitched from the wagon grazed on a tether. Bedrolls lay scattered on the ground in preparation for sleep. The men were in the process of passing an aleskin back and forth.
One of them motioned for Coll to join them. Coll hesitated. The others waved him over, telling him to come on in, to have something to eat and drink, and what in the name of everything sane had happened to him?
Coll went, aware of how strange he must look, but desperate for food. He was seated among them, given a plate and bowl and a cup of the ale. He had barely taken his first bite when the first blow struck him behind the ear and they were all over him. He fought to rise, to free himself and flee, but there were too many hands holding him back. He was pummeled and kicked nearly unconscious. The Sword of Shannara was stripped from him. Chains were locked about his wrists and ankles, and he was thrown into the back of the wagon. He pleaded with them not to do this. He begged them to set him free, telling them that he was searching for his brother, that he had to find him, that they had to let him go. They laughed at him, scorned him, and told him to keep quiet or he would be gagged. He was propped upright and given a cup of broth and a blanket.
His weapon, he was told, would fetch a good price. But he would fetch an even better one when they sold him to the Federation to work in the slave mines at Dechtera.
XXV
Par Ohmsford dreamed.
He ran through a forest black with shadows and empty of life. It was night, the sky through the leafy canopy of boughs a deep blue bereft of stars and moon. Par could see clearly as he ran, but he could not determine the source of his vision’s light. The trunks of the trees shifted before him, waving like stalks of grass in a wind, forcing him to dodge and weave to avoid them. Branches reached down and brushed against his face and arms, trying to hold him back. Voices whispered, calling out to him over and over again.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
He was terrified.
The clothes he wore were damp with his sweat, and he could feel the chafing of his boots against his ankles. Now and again there would be streams and ponds, and he was forced to leap them or turn aside because he knew instinctively that they were quagmires that if stepped in would pull him down. He listened as he ran for the sounds of other living things. He kept thinking that he could not be this alone, that a forest must have other creatures living within it. He kept thinking, too, that the forest must eventually end, that it could not go on indefinitely. But the farther he ran, the deeper grew the silence and the darker the trees. No sound broke the stillness. No light penetrated the woods.
After a time he became aware of something following him, a nameless black thing that ran as swiftly as he, following as surely as his shadow. He sought to outdistance it by running faster and could not. He sought to lose it by turning aside, first this way and then that, and the thing turned with him. He sought to flatten himself against a monstrous old trunk of indistinguishable origin, and the thing stopped with him and waited.
It was the thing that whispered to him.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
He ran on, not knowing what to do, panic rushing through him, despair washing away hope. He was trapped by the trees and the darkness and could not escape, and he knew that sooner or later the thing would have him. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears and hear the ragged tremor of his breathing. His chest heaved and his legs ached, and he did not think he could go on but knew he could not stop. He reached down for his weapons and found he carried none. He tried to bring someone to help him by sheer force of will, but the names and faces of those he would call upon would not come.
Then he was at the bank of a river, black and swift in the night, racing with the force of floodwaters down a broad, straight channel. He knew it was not really a river, that it was something else, but he did not know what. He saw a bridge spanning it and raced to cross. Behind, he could hear the thing following. He leaped onto the bridge, a wide arching span built of timbers and iron nails. His boots made no sound as he ran. His footfalls were silent. The bridge had seemed an avenue of escape when he had started across it, but now he found he could not see the far shore. He looked back, and the forest had disappeared as well. The sky had lowered and the water had risen, and suddenly he was in a box that was closing tightly about.
The thing that followed him hissed. It was gaining quickly, and it was growing as the box shrank.
Par turned then, knowing he would not escape, that he had been led into a trap, that whatever he had hoped to gain by running had been lost. He turned, and as he did so he remembered that he was not defenseless after all, that he possessed the power of the wishsong, and that the Elven magic could protect him against anything. A surge of hope flooded through him, and he summoned the magic to his defense. It exploded through him in a wild, euphoric rush, a white light that turned his blood to fire and his body to ice. He felt it fill him, felt it sheathe him in the armor of its power and turn him indestructible.
He waited for the thing that followed with anticipation.
It crept out of the night like a cat, a creature without form or substance. He could feel it long before he saw it. He could sense it watching, then breathing, then drawing itself up. It was first to one side and then to the other and finally all about. But he knew somehow that he was not in danger until he could see its face, ft twisted and swirled about him, staying carefully out of reach, and he waited for it to tire.
Then it began to materialize, and it was not strange or misshapen or even so large. Its body was the size and shape of his own, and it stood just before him, fully revealed save for its face. He brought the wishsong’s magic to his fingertips and held it there like an arrow drawn back in a bowstring, taut, straining for release, razor-sharp. The thing before him watched. Its head was turned toward him now, but its face was clouded and dim. Its voice whispered again.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
Then its face came together and Par was looking at himself.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
Par shuddered and sent the magic of the wishsong flying into the thing. The thing caught it, and it was gone. Par sent the magic a second time, a hammer-blow of power that would smash the creature back into smoke. The thing swallowed it as if it were air. His face smiled back at him, hollow-looking and ragged about the edges, a mirage threatening to disappear back into the heat.
Don’t you know?
Don’t you see?
The voice whispered, sly, condescending, and hateful, and he attacked again, over and over, the magic flying out of him. But something strange was happening. The more he called upon the magic, the more pleased the thing seemed. He could feel its satisfaction as if it were palpable. He could sense it
s pleasure. The thing was changing, growing more substantial rather than less, feeding on the magic, drawing it in.
Don’t you understand?
Par gasped and stepped back, aware now that he was changing as well, losing shape and definition, disintegrating like burned wood turned to ash. He groped at himself in despair and saw his hands pass through his body. The thing came closer, reaching out. He saw himself reflected in its eyes.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
He saw himself, and he realized that there was no longer any difference between them. He had become the thing.
He screamed as it took him in its arms and slowly drew him in.
The dream ended, and Par awoke with a lurch. He was dizzy, and his breathing was ragged and harsh in the silence. Just a dream, he thought. He put his face in his hands and waited for the spinning to stop. A nightmare, but so very real! He swallowed against his lingering fear.
He opened his eyes again and looked about. He was in a room that was as black as the forest through which he had fled. The room smelled of must and disuse. Windows on a far wall opened onto night skies that were clouded and moonless. The air felt hot and sticky, and there was no wind. He was sitting on a bed that was little more than a wooden frame and pallet, and his clothes were damp and stiff with dried mud.
He remembered then.
The plains, the storm, the battle with Coll, the triggering of the magic of the Sword of Shannara, the coming of the Shadowen, the appearance of the King of the Silver River, the light and then the dark—the images sped past him in an instant’s time.
Where was he?
A light flared suddenly from across the room, a brilliant firefly that rested at the fingertips of an arm gloved to the elbow. The light settled on a lamp, and the lamp brightened, casting its glow across the shadows.
“Now that you’re awake, perhaps we can talk.”
A black-cloaked form stepped into the light, tall and rangy and hooded. It moved in silence, with grace and ease. On its breast gleamed the white insignia of a wolf’s head.
Rimmer Dall.
Par felt himself go cold from head to foot, and it was all he could do to keep from bolting. He looked about quickly at the stone walls, at the bars on the windows, at the iron-bound wooden door that stood closed at Rimmer Dall’s back. He was at Southwatch. He looked for the Sword of Shannara. It was gone. And Coll was missing as well.
“You don’t seem to have slept well.”
Rimmer Dall’s whispery voice floated through the silence. He pulled back the hood and his rawboned, bearded face was caught in the light, all angles and planes, a mask devoid of expression. If he was aware of Par’s distress, he did not show it. He moved to a chair and seated himself. “Do you want something to eat?”
Par shook his head, not yet trusting himself to speak. His throat felt dry and tight, and his muscles were in knots. Don’t panic, he told himself. Stay calm. He forced himself to breathe, slow and deep and regular. He brought his legs around on the bed and put his feet on the floor, but did not try to rise. Rimmer Dall watched him out of depthless eyes, his mouth a narrow, tight line, his body motionless. Like a cat waiting, Par thought.
“Where is Coll?” he asked, and his voice was steady.
“The King of the Silver River took him.” The whispery voice was smooth and oddly comforting. “He took the Sword of Shannara as well.”
“But you managed to keep him from taking me.”
The First Seeker laughed softly. “You did that yourself. I didn’t have anything to do with it. You used the wishsong, and the magic worked against you. It forced the King of the Silver River away from you.” He paused. “The magic grows more unpredictable, doesn’t it? Remember how I warned you?”
Par nodded. “I do. I remember everything. But what I remember doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t believe you if you told me the sun came up in the east. You’ve lied to me from the beginning. I don’t know why, but you have. And I’m through listening, so you might as well do whatever you have in mind and be done with it.”
Rimmer Dall studied him silently. Then he said, “Tell me what I’ve lied to you about.”
Par was furious. He started to speak, but then stopped, suddenly aware that he couldn’t remember any specific lies the big man had told. The lies were there, as clear as the wolf’s head that glimmered on the black robes, but he couldn’t seem to focus on them.
“I told you when we met that I was a Shadowen. I gave you the Sword of Shannara and let you test it against me to find out if I was lying. I warned you that your magic was a danger to you, that it was changing you, and that you might not be able to control it without help. Where was the lie in any of this?”
“You took my brother prisoner after making me think I had killed him!” Par howled, on his feet now in spite of his resolve, threatening. “You let me think he was dead! Then you let him escape with the Mirrorshroud so that he would become a Shadowen and I might kill him again! You set us against each other!”
“Did I?” Rimmer Dall shook his head. “Why would I do that? What would doing that gain me? Tell me what purpose any of that would serve.” He stayed seated and calm in the face of Par’s wrath, waiting. Par stood there glaring, but did not answer. “No? Then listen to me. I didn’t make you think you killed Coll—you did that on your own. Your magic did that, twisting you about, changing what you saw. Remember, Par? Remember the way you thought you had lost control?”
Par caught his breath. Yes, it had been exactly like that, a sense of flying out of himself, of being shifted away.
The big man nodded. “My Seekers found your brother after you had fled and brought him to me. Yes, they were rough with him, but they did not know who he was, only that he was where he shouldn’t be. I held him at Southwatch, yes—trying to persuade him to help me find you. I believed him my last chance. When he escaped, he took the Mirrorshroud with him—but I didn’t help him steal it. He took it on his own. Yes, it subverted him; the magic is too strong for a normal man. You, Par, could have worn it without being affected. And I didn’t set you against each other—you did that yourselves. Each time I came to you I tried to help, and each time you ran from me. It is time the running stopped.”
“I’m sure you would like that!” Par snapped furiously. “It would make things so much easier!”
“Think what you are saying, Par. It lacks reason.”
Par clenched his teeth. “Lacks reason? Everywhere I go there are Shadowen waiting, trying to kill me and my friends. What of Damson Rhee and Padishar Creel at Tyrsis? I suppose that was all a mistake?”
“A mistake, but not mine,” Rimmer Dall answered calmly. “The Federation pursued you there, took the girl and then subsequently the free-born leader. The Seekers you destroyed in the watchtower when you freed the girl were there on Federation orders. They did not know who you were, only that you were an intruder. They paid for it with their lives. You must answer for the fairness of that.”
Par shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anything you say.”
Rimmer Dall shifted slightly in the chair, a ripple of black. “So you have said each time we have talked. But you seem to lack any concrete reason for your stance. When have I done anything to threaten you? When have I done anything but be forthright? I told you the history of the Shadowen. I told you that the magic is our birthright, a gift that can help, that can save. I told you that the Federation is the enemy, that it has hunted us and destroyed us at every turn because it fears and hates what it cannot or will not understand. Enemies, Par? Not you and I. We are kindred. We are the same.”
Par saw the dream suddenly, and its memory sparked something dark and inexorable inside. Running from himself, from the magic, from his birthright, from his destiny—it was possible, wasn’t it?
“If we are kindred, if you are not the enemy, then you will let me go,” he insisted.
“Oh, no, not this time.” The big man shook his head and his smile was a twitch at the corners of his m
outh. “I did so before, and you almost destroyed yourself. I won’t be so foolish again. This time we will try my way. We will talk, visit, explore, discover, and hopefully learn. After that, you can go.”
Par shook his head angrily. “I don’t want to talk or visit or any of the rest. There’s nothing to talk about.” He glared. “If you try to hold me, I will use the wishsong.”
Rimmer Dall nodded. “Go ahead, use it.” He paused. “But remember what the magic is doing to you.”
Changing me, Par thought in recognition of the warning’s import. Each time I use it, it changes me further. Each time, I lose a little more control. I try not to let that happen, but I can’t seem to prevent it. And I don’t know what the consequences will be, but they do not feel as if they will be pleasant.
“I am not a Shadowen,” he said dully.
Rimmer Dall’s gaze was flat and steady. “It is only a word.”
“I don’t care. I am not.”
The First Seeker rose and walked over to the window. He stared out at the night, distracted and distant. “I used to be bothered by who I was and what I was called,” he said. “I considered myself a freak, a dangerous aberration. But I learned that was wrong. It was not what other people thought of me that mattered; it was what I thought of myself. If I allowed myself to be shaped by other people’s opinions, I would become what they wished me to become.”
He turned back to Par. “The Shadowen are being destroyed without reason. We are being blamed without cause. We have magic that can help in many ways, and we are not being allowed to use it. Ask yourself, Par—how is it any different for you?”