The Scions of Shannara

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was just after dawn when Par Ohmsford came awake the first time. He lay motionless on his pallet of woven mats, collecting his scattered thoughts in the silence of his mind. It took him awhile to remember where he was. He was in a storage shed behind a gardening shop somewhere in the center of Tyrsis. Damson had brought them there last night to hide after...

The memory returned to him in an unpleasant rush, images that swept through his mind with horrific clarity. He forced his eyes open and the images disappeared. A faint wash of gray, hazy light seeped through cracks in the shuttered windows of the shed, lending vague definition to the scores of gardening tools stacked upright like soldiers at watch. The smell of dirt and sod filled the air, rich and pungent. It was silent beyond the walls of their concealment, the city still sleeping.

He lifted his head cautiously and glanced about. Coll was asleep beside him, his breathing deep and even. Damson was nowhere to be seen.

He lay back again for a time, listening to the silence, letting himself come fully awake. Then he rose, gingerly easing himself from beneath his blankets and onto his feet. He was stiff and cramped, and there was an aching in his joints that caused him to wince. But his strength was back; he could move about again unaided.

Coll stirred fitfully, turning over once before settling down again. Par watched his brother momentarily, studying the shadowed line of his blunt features, then stepped over to the nearest window. He was still wearing his clothing; only his boots had been removed. The chill of early morning seeped up from the plank flooring into his stockinged feet, but he ignored it. He put his eye to a crack in the shutters and looked out. It had stopped raining, but the skies were clouded and the world had a damp, empty look. Nothing moved within the range of his vision. A jumbled collection of walls, roofs, streets and shadowed niches stared back at him from out of the mist.

The door behind him opened, and Damson stepped noiselessly into the shed. Her clothing was beaded with moisture and her red hair hung limp.

“Here, what are you doing?” she whispered, her forehead creasing with annoyance. She crossed the room quickly and took hold of him as if he were about to topple over. “You’re not to be out of bed yet! You’re far too weak! Back you go at once!”

She steered him to his pallet and forced him to lie down again. He made a brief attempt to resist and discovered that he had less strength than he first believed.

“Damson, listen...” he began, but she quickly put a hand over his mouth.

“No, you listen, Elf-boy.” She paused, staring down at him as she might at a curious discovery. “What is the matter with you, Par Ohmsford? Haven’t you an ounce of common sense to call your own? You barely escaped with your life last night and already you are looking to risk it again. Haven’t you the least regard for yourself?”

She took a deep breath, and he found himself thinking suddenly of how warm her hand felt against his face. She seemed to read his thoughts and lifted it away. Her fingers trailed across his cheek.

He caught her hand in his and held it. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I was drifting in and out of nightmares about last night.” Her hand felt small and light in his own. “I can’t stop thinking about Morgan and Padishar

He trailed off, not wanting to say more. It was too frightening, even now. Next to him, Coll’s eyes blinked open and fixed on him. “What’s going on?” he asked sleepily.

Damson’s fingers tightened on Par’s. “Your brother cannot seem to sleep for worrying about everyone but himself.”

Par stared up at her wordlessly for a moment, then said, “Is there any news, Damson?”

She smiled faintly. “I will make a bargain with you. If you promise me that you will try to go back to sleep for a time—or at least not leave this bed—I promise you that I will try to learn the answer to your question. Fair enough?”

The Valeman nodded. He found himself pondering anew Padishar’s final admonition to him: Trust her. She is the better part of me!

Damson glanced over at Coll. “I depend on you to make certain that he keeps his word.” Her hand slipped from Par’s and she stood up. “I will bring back something to eat as well. Stay quiet, now. No one will disturb you here.”

She paused momentarily, as if reluctant even then to leave, then turned and disappeared out the door.

Silence filled the shadowed room. The brothers looked at each other without speaking for a moment, and then Coll said quietly, “She’s in love with you.”

Par flushed, then quickly shook his head. “No. She’s just being protective, nothing more.”

Coll lay back, sighed and closed his eyes. “Oh, is that it?” He let his breathing slow. Par thought he was sleeping again when he suddenly said, “What happened to you last night, Par?”

Par hesitated. “You mean the wishsong?”

Coll’s eyes slipped open. “Of course I mean the wishsong.” He glanced over sharply. “I know how the magic works better than anyone other than yourself, and I’ve never seen it do that. That wasn’t an illusion you created; that was the real thing! I didn’t think you could do that.”

“I didn’t either.”

“Well?”

Par shook his head. What had happened indeed? He closed his eyes momentarily and then opened them again, “I have a theory,” he admitted finally, “I came up with it between sleep and bad dreams, you might say. Remember how the magic of the wishsong came about in the first place? Wil Ohmsford used the Elfstones in his battle with the Reaper. He had to in order to save the Elf-girl Amberle. Shades, we’ve told that story often enough, haven’t we? It was dangerous for him to do so because he hadn’t enough true Elf blood to allow it. It changed him in a way he couldn’t determine at first. It wasn’t until after his children were born, until after Brin and Jair, that he discovered what had been done. Some part of the Elf magic of the Stones had gone into him. That part was passed to Brin and Jair in the form of the wishsong.”

He raised himself up on one elbow; Coll did likewise. The light was sufficient now to let them see each other’s faces clearly. “Cogline told us that first night that we didn’t understand the magic. He said that it works in different ways—something like that—but that until we understood it, we could only use it in one. Then, later, at the Hadeshorn, he told us how the magic changes, leaving wakes in its passing like the water of a lake disturbed. He made specific reference to Wil Ohmsford’s legacy of magic, the magic that became the wishsong.”

He paused. The room was very still. When he spoke again, his voice sounded strange in his ears. “Now suppose for a moment that he was right, that the magic is changing all the time, evolving in some way. After all, that’s what happened when the magic of the Elfstones passed from Wil Ohmsford to his children. So what if it has changed again, this time in me?”

Coll stared. “What do you mean?” he asked finally. “How do you think it could change?”

“Suppose that the magic has worked its way back to what it was in the beginning. The blue Elfstones that Allanon gave to Shea Ohmsford when they went in search of the Sword of Shannara all those years ago had the power to seek out that which was hidden from the holder.”

“Par!” Coll breathed his name softly, the astonishment apparent in his voice.

“No, wait. Let me finish. Last night, the magic released itself in a way it has never done before. I could barely control it. You’re right, Coll; there was no illusion in what it did. But it did respond in a recognizable way. It sought out what was hidden from me, and I think it did so because subconsciously I willed it.” His voice was fierce. “Coll. Suppose that the power that once was inherent in the magic of the Elfstones is now inherent in the magic within me!”

There was a long silence between them. They were close now, their faces not two feet apart, their eyes locked. Coll’s rough features were knotted in concentration, the enormity of what Par was suggesting weighing down on him like a massive stone block. Doubt mirrored in his eyes, then acceptance, and suddenly fear.

His face went taut. His rough voice was very soft. “The Elfstones possessed another property as well. They could defend the holde against danger. They could be a weapon of tremendous power.”

Par waited, saying nothing, already knowing what was coming.

“Do you think that the magic of the wishsong can now do the same for you?”

Par’s response was barely audible. “Yes, Coll. I think maybe it can.”

By midday, the haze of early morning had burned away and the clouds had moved on. Sunshine shone down on Tyrsis, blanketing the city in heat. Puddles and streams evaporated as the temperature rose, the stone and clay of the streets dried, and the air grew humid and sticky.

Traffic at the gates of the Outer Wall was heavy and slow moving. The Federation guards on duty, double the usual number as a result of the previous night’s disturbance, were already sweating and irritable when the bearded gravedigger approached from out of the back streets beyond the inner wall. Travelers and merchants alike moved aside at his approach. He was ragged and stooped, and he smelled to the watch as if he had been living in a sewer. He was wheeling a heavy cart in front of him, the wood rotted and splintered. There was a body in the cart, wrapped in sheets and bound with leather ties.

The guards glanced at one another as the gravedigger trudged up to them, his charge wheeled negligently before him, rolling and bouncing.

“Hot one for work, isn’t it, sirs?” the gravedigger wheezed, and the guards flinched in spite of themselves from the stench of him.

“Papers,” said one perfunctorily.

“Sure, sure.” One ragged hand passed over a document that looked as if it had been used to wipe up mud. The gravedigger gestured at the body. “Got to get this one in the ground quick, don’t you know. Won’t last long on a day such as this.”

One of the guards stepped close enough to prod the corpse with the point of his sword. “Easy now,” the grave-digger advised. “Even the dead deserve some respect.”

The soldier looked at him suspiciously, then shoved the sword deep into the body and pulled it out again. The gravedigger cackled. “You might want to be cleaning your sword there, sir—seeing as how this one died of the spotted fever.”

The soldier stepped back quickly, pale now. The others retreated as well. The one holding the gravedigger’s papers handed them hastily back and motioned him on.

The gravedigger shrugged, picked up the handles of the cart and wheeled his body down the long ramp toward the plain below, whistling tunelessly as he went.

What a collection of fools, Padishar Creel thought disdainfully to himself.

When he reached the first screening of trees north, the city of Tyrsis a distant grayish outline against the swelter, Padishar eased the handles of the cart down, shoved the body he had been hauling aside, took out an iron bar and began prying loose the boards of the cart’s false bottom. Gingerly, he helped Morgan extricate himself from his place of hiding. Morgan’s face was pale and drawn, as much from the heat and discomfort of his concealment as from the lingering effects of last night’s battle.

“Take a little of this.” The outlaw chief offered him an aleskin, trying unsuccessfully not to look askance. Morgan accepted the offering wordlessly. He knew what the other was thinking—that the Highlander hadn’t been right since their escape from the Pit.

Abandoning the cart and its body, they walked a mile further on to a river where they could wash. They bathed, dressed in clean clothes that Padishar had hidden with Morgan in the cart’s false bottom, and sat down to have something to eat.

The meal was a silent one until Padishar, unable to stand it any longer, growled, “We can see about fixing the blade, Highlander. It may be the magic isn’t lost after all.”

Morgan just shook his head. “This isn’t something anyone can fix,” he said tonelessly.

“No? Tell me why. Tell me how the sword works, then. You explain it to me.” Padishar wasn’t about to let the matter alone.

Morgan did as the other asked, not because he particularly wanted to, but because it was the easiest way to get Padishar to stop talking about it. He told the story of how the Sword of Leah was made magic, how Allanon dipped its blade in the waters of the Hadeshorn so that Rone Leah would have a weapon with which to protect Brin Ohmsford. “The magic was in the blade, Padishar,” he finished. He was having trouble being patient by now. “Once broken, it cannot be repaired. The magic is lost.”

Padishar frowned doubtfully, then shrugged. “Well, it was lost for a good cause, Highlander. After all, it saved our lives. A good trade any day of the week.”

Morgan looked up at him, his eyes haunted. “You don’t understand. There was some sort of bond between us, the sword and me. When the sword broke, it was as if it was happening to me! It doesn’t make sense, I know—but it’s there anyway. When the magic was lost, some part of me was lost as well.”

“But that’s just your sense of it now, lad. Who’s to say that won’t change?” Padishar gave him an encouraging smile. “Give yourself a little time. Let the wound heal, as they say.”

Morgan put down his food, disinterested in eating, and hunched his knees close against his chest. He remained quiet, ignoring the fact that the outlaw chief was waiting for a response, contemplating instead the nagging recognition that nothing had gone right since their decision to go down into the Pit after the missing Sword of Shannara.

Padishar’s brow furrowed irritably. “We have to go,” he announced abruptly and stood up. When Morgan didn’t move right away, he said, “Now, listen to me, Highlander. We’re alive and that’s the way we’re going to stay, sword or no sword, and I’ll not allow you to continue acting like some half-dead puppy...”

Morgan came to his feet with a bound. “Enough, Padishar! I don’t need you worrying about me!” His voice sounded harsher than he had meant it to, but he could not disguise the anger he was feeling. That anger quickly found a focus. “Why don’t you try worrying about the Valemen? Do you have any idea at all what’s happened to them? Why have we left them behind like this?”

“Ah.” The other spoke the word softly. “So that’s what’s really eating at you, is it? Well, Highlander, the Valemen are likely better off than we are. We were seen getting out of that Gatehouse, remember? The Federation isn’t so stupid that it will overlook the report of what happened and the fact that two so-called guards are somehow missing. They’ll have our description. If we hadn’t gotten out of the city right away, we likely wouldn’t have gotten out at all!”

He jabbed his finger at the Highlander. “Now the Valemen, on the other hand—no one saw them. No one will recognize their faces. Besides, Damson will have them in hand by now. She knows to bring them to the Jut. She’ll get them out of Tyrsis easily enough when she has the chance.”

Morgan shook his head stubbornly. “Maybe. Maybe not. You were confident as well about our chances of retrieving the Sword of Shannara and look what happened.”

Padishar flushed angrily. “The risks involved in that were hardly a secret to any of us!”

“Tell that to Stasas and Drutt and Ciba Blue!”

The big man snatched hold of Morgan’s tunic and yanked him forward violently. His eyes were hard with anger. “Those were my friends that died back there, Highlander—not yours. Don’t be throwing it up in my face! What I did, I did for all of us. We need the Sword of Shannara! Sooner or later we’re going to have to go back for it—Shadowen or not! You know that as well as I! As for the Valemen, I don’t like leaving them any better than you do! But we had precious little choice in the matter!”

Morgan tried unsuccessfully to jerk free. “You might have gone looking for them, at least!”

“Where? Where would I look? Do you think they would be hidden in any place we could find? Damson’s no fool! She has them tucked away in the deepest hole in Tyrsis! Shades, Highlander! Don’t you realize what’s happening back there? We uncovered a secret last night that the Federation has gone to great pains to conceal! I’m not sure either of us understands what it all means yet, but it’s enough that the Federation thinks we might! They’ll want us dead for that!”

His voice was a snarl. “I caught a glimpse of what’s to come when I passed you through the gates. The Federation authorities no longer concern themselves merely with doubling guards and increasing watch patrols. They have mobilized the entire garrison! Unless I am badly mistaken, young Morgan Leah, they have decided to eliminate us once and for all—you and me and any other members of the Movement they can run to earth. We are a real threat to them now, because, for the first time, we begin to understand what they are about—and that’s something they will not abide!”

His grip tightened, fingers of stone. “They’ll come hunting us, and we had best not be anywhere we can be found!”

He released the Highlander with a shove. He took a deep breath and straightened. “In any case, I don’t choose to argue the matter with you. I am leader here. You fought well back there in the Pit, and perhaps it cost you something. But that doesn’t give you the right to question my orders. I understand the business of staying alive better than you, and you had best remember it.”

Morgan was white with rage, but he kept himself in check. He knew there was nothing to be gained by arguing the matter further; the big man was not about to change his mind. He knew as well, deep down inside where he could admit it to himself, that what Padishar was saying about staying around in an effort to find Par and Coll was the truth.

He stepped away from Padishar and smoothed his rumpled clothing carefully, “I just want to be certain that we are agreed that the Valemen will not be forgotten.”

Padishar Creel’s smile was quick and hard. “Not for a moment. Not by me, at least. You are free to do as you choose in the matter.”

He wheeled away, moving off into the trees. After a moment’s hesitation, Morgan swallowed his anger and pride and followed.

Par came awake for the second time that day toward midafternoon. Coll was shaking him and the smell of hot soup filled the close confines of their shelter. He blinked and sat up slowly. Damson stood at a pruning bench, spooning broth into bowls, the steam rising thickly as she worked. She glanced over at the Valeman and smiled. Her flaming hair shimmered brightly in the shards of sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the shuttered windows, and Par experienced an almost irresistible need to reach out and stroke it.

Damson served the Valemen the soup together with fresh fruit, bread, and milk, and Par thought it was the most wonderful meal he had ever tasted. He ate everything he was given, Coll with him, both ravenous beyond what they would have thought possible. Par was surprised that he had been able to go back to sleep, but he was unquestionably the better for it, his body rested now and shed of most of its aches and pains. There was little talk during the meal, and that left him free to think. His mind had begun working almost immediately on waking, skipping quickly from the memory of last night’s horrors to the prospect of what lay ahead—to sift through the information he had gathered, to consider carefully what he suspected, to make plans for what he now believed must be.

The process made him shudder inwardly with excitement and foreboding. Already, he discovered, he was beginning to relish the prospect of attempting the unthinkable.

When the Valemen had finished eating, they washed in a basin of fresh water. Then Damson sat them down again and told them what had become of Padishar and Morgan.

“They escaped,” she began without preamble. Her green eyes reflected amusement and awe. “I don’t know how they managed it, but they did. It took me awhile to verify that they had indeed gotten free, but I wanted to make certain of what I was being told.”

Par grinned at his brother in relief. Coll stifled his own grin and instead simply shrugged. “Knowing those two, they probably talked their way out,” he responded gruffly.

“Where are they now?” Par asked. He felt as if years had been added back onto his life. Padishar and Morgan had escaped—it was the best news he could have been given.

“That I don’t know,” Damson replied, shrugging. “They seem to have disappeared. Either they have gone to ground in the city or—more likely—they have left it altogether and are on their way back to the Jut. The latter seems the better guess because the entire Federation garrison is mobilizing and there’s only one reason they would do that. They mean to go after Padishar and his men in the Parma Key. Apparently, whatever he—and you—did last night made them very angry. There are all sorts of rumors afloat. Some say dozens of Federation soldiers were killed at the Gatehouse by monsters. Some say the monsters are loose in the city. Whatever the case, Padishar will have read the signs as easily as I. He’ll have slipped out by now and gone north.”

“You’re certain the Federation hasn’t found him instead?” Par was still anxious.

Damson shook her head. “I would have heard.” She was propped against the leg of the pruning bench as they sat on the pallets that had served as their beds the night before. She let her head tilt back against the roughened wood so that the soft curve of her face caught the light. “It is your turn now. Tell me what happened. Par. What did you find in the Pit?”

With help from Coll, Par related what had befallen them, deciding as he did that he would do as Padishar had urged, that he would trust Damson in the same way that he had trusted the outlaw chief. Thus he told her not only of their encounter with the Shadowen, but of the strange behavior of the wishsong, of the unexpected way its magic had performed, even of his suspicions of the influence of the Elf stones.

When he had finished, the three of them sat staring wordlessly at one another for a moment, of different minds as they reflected on what the foray into the Pit had uncovered and what it all meant.

Coll spoke first. “It seems to me that we have more questions to answer now than we did when we went in.”

“But we know some things, too, Coll,” Par argued. He bent forward, eager to speak. “We know that there is some sort of connection between the Federation and the Shadowen. The Federation has to know what it has down there; it can’t be ignorant of the truth. Maybe it even helped create those monsters. For all we know they might be Federation prisoners thrown into the Pit like Ciba Blue and changed into what we found. And why are they still down there if the Federation isn’t keeping them so? Wouldn’t they have escaped long ago if they could?”

“As I said, there are more questions than answers,” Coll declared. He shifted his heavy frame to a more comfortable position.

Damson shook her head. “Something seems wrong here. Why would the Federation have any dealings with the Shadowen? The Shadowen represent everything the Federation is against—magic, the old ways, the subversion of the Southland and its people. How would the Federation even go about making such an arrangement? It has no defense against the Shadowen magic. How would it protect itself?”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to,” Coll said suddenly. They looked at him. “Maybe the Federation has given the Shadowen someone else to feed on besides itself, someone the Federation has no use for in any case. Perhaps, that’s what became of the Elves.” He paused. “Perhaps that’s what’s happening now to the Dwarves.”

They were silent as they considered the possibility. Par hadn’t thought about the Dwarves for a time, the horrors of Culhaven and its people shoved to the back of his mind these past few weeks. He remembered what he had seen there—the poverty, the misery, the oppression. The Dwarves were being exterminated for reasons that had never been clear. Could Coll be right? Could the Federation be feeding the Dwarves to the Shadowen as part of some unspeakable bargain between them?

His face tightened in dismay. “But what would the Federation get in return?”

“Power,” Damson Rhee said immediately. Her face was still and white.

“Power over the Races, over the Four Lands,” Coll agreed, nodding. “It makes sense, Par.”

Par shook his head slowly. “But what happens when there is no one left but the Federation? Surely someone must have thought of that. What keeps the Shadowen from feeding on them as well?”

No one answered. “We’re still missing something,” Par said softly. “Something important.”

He rose, walked to the other side of the room, stood looking into space for a long moment, shook his head finally, turned, and came back. His lean face was stubborn with determination as he reseated himself.

“Let’s get back to the matter of the Shadowen in the Pit,” he declared quietly, “since that, at least, is a mystery that we might be able to solve.” He folded his legs in front of him and eased forward. He looked at each of them in turn, then said, “I think that the reason they are down there is to keep anyone from getting to the Sword of Shannara.”

“Par!” Coll tried to object, but his brother cut him off with a quick shake of his head.

“Think about it a moment, Coll. Padishar was right. Why would the Federation go to all the trouble of remaking the People’s Park and the Bridge of Sendic? Why would they hide what remains of the old park and bridge in that ravine? Why, if not to conceal the Sword? And we’ve seen the vault, Coll! We’ve seen it!”

“The vault, yes—but not the Sword,” Damson pointed out quietly, her green eyes intense as they met those of the Valemen.

“But if the Sword isn’t down in the Pit as well, why are the Shadowen there?” Par asked at once. “Surely not to protect an empty vault! No, the Sword is still in its vault, just as it has been for three hundred years. That’s why Allanon sent me after it—he knew it was there, waiting to be found.”

“He could have saved us a lot of time and trouble by telling us as much,” said Coll pointedly.

Par shook his head. “No, Coll. That isn’t the way he would do it. Think about the history of the Sword. Bremen gave it to Jerle Shannara some thousand years ago to destroy the Warlock Lord and the Elf King couldn’t master it because he wasn’t prepared to accept what it demanded of him. When Allanon chose Shea Ohmsford to finish the job five hundred years later, he decided that the Valeman must first prove himself. If he was not strong enough to wield it, if he did not want it badly enough, if he were not willing to give enough of himself to the task that finding it entailed, then the power of the Sword would prove too much for him as well. And he knew if that happened, the Warlock Lord would escape again.”

“And he believes it will be the same now with you,” Damson finished. She was looking at Par as if she were seeing him for the first time. “If you are not strong enough, if you are not willing to give enough, the Sword of Shannara will be useless to you. The Shadowen will prevail.”

Par’s answering nod was barely discernible.

“But why would the Shadowen—or the Federation, for that matter—leave the Sword in the Pit all these years?” Coll demanded, irritated that they were even talking about the matter after what had happened to them last night. “Why not simply remove it—or better yet, why not destroy it?”

Par’s face was intense. “I don’t think either the Federation or the Shadowen can destroy it—not a talisman of such power. I doubt that the Shadowen can even touch it. The Warlock Lord couldn’t. What I can’t figure out is why the Federation hasn’t taken it out and hidden it.”

He clasped his hands tightly before him. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. The fact remains the Sword is still there, still in its vault.” He paused, eyes level. “Waiting for us.”

Coll gaped at him, realizing for the first time what he was suggesting. For a moment, he couldn’t speak at all.

“You can’t be serious, Par.” he managed finally, the disbelief in his voice undisguised. “After what happened last night? After seeing...” He forced himself to stop, then snapped, “You wouldn’t last two minutes.”

“Yes, I would,” Par replied. His eyes were bright with determination, “I know I would. Allanon told me as much.”

Coll was aghast. “Allanon! What are you talking about?”

“He said we had the skills needed to accomplish what was asked—Walker, Wren, and myself. Remember? In my case, I think he was talking about the wishsong. I think he meant that the magic of the wishsong would protect me.”

“Well, it’s done a rather poor job of it up to now!” Coll snapped, lashing out furiously.

“I didn’t understand what it could do then. I think I do now.”

“You think? You think? Shades, Par!”

Par remained calm. “What else are we to do? Run back to the Jut? Run home? Spend the rest of our days sneaking about?” Par’s hands were shaking. “Coll, I haven’t any choice. I have to try.”

Coll’s strong face closed in upon itself in dismay, his mouth tightening against whatever outburst threatened to break free. He wheeled on Damson, but the girl had her eyes locked on Par and would not look away.

The Valeman turned back, gritting his teeth. “So you would go back down into the Pit on the strength of an unproven and untested belief. You would risk your life on the chance that the wishsong—a magic that has failed to protect you three times already against the Shadowen—will somehow protect you now. And all because of what you perceive as your newfound insight into a dead man’s words!” He drew his breath in slowly. “I cannot believe you would do anything so... stupid! If I could think of anything worse to call it, I would!”

“Coll...”

“No, don’t say another word to me! I have gone with you everywhere, followed after you, supported you, done everything I could to keep you safe—and now you plan to throw yourself away! Just waste your life! Do you understand what you are doing, Par? You are sacrificing yourself! You still think you have some special ability to decide what’s right! You are obsessed! You can’t ever let go, even when common sense tells you you should!”

Coll clenched his fists before him. His face was rigid and furrowed, and it was all he could do to keep his voice level. Par had never seen him so angry. “Anyone else would back away, think it through, and decide to go for help. But you’re not planning on any of that, are you? I can see it in your eyes. You haven’t the time or the patience. You’ve made up your mind. Forget Padishar or Morgan or anyone else but yourself. You mean to have that Sword! You’d even give up your life to have it, wouldn’t you?”

“I am not so blind...”

“Damson, you talk to him!” Coll interrupted, desperate now. “I know you care for him; tell him what a fool he is!”

But Damson Rhee shook her head. “No. I won’t do that.” Coll stared at her, stunned. “I haven’t the right,” she finished softly.

Coll went silent then, his rough features sagging in defeat. No one spoke immediately, letting the momentary stillness settle across the room. Daylight had shifted with the sun’s movement west, gone now to the far side of the little storage shed, the shadows beginning to lengthen slightly in its wake. A scattering of voices sounded from somewhere in the streets beyond and faded away. Par felt an aching deep within himself at the look he saw on his brother’s face, at the sense of betrayal he knew Coll was feeling. But there was no help for it. There was but one thing Par could say that would change matters, and he was not about to say it.

“I have a plan,” he tried instead. He waited until Coll’s eyes lifted. “I know what you think, but I don’t propose to take any more chances than I have to.” Coll gave him an incredulous look, but kept still. “The vault sits close to the base of the cliffs, just beneath the walls of the old palace. If I could get into the ravine from the other side, I would have only a short distance to cover. Once I had the Sword in my hands, I would be safe from the Shadowen.”

There were several huge assumptions involved in that last statement, but neither Coll nor Damson chose to raise them. Par felt the sweat bead on his forehead. The difficulty of what he was about to suggest was terrifying.

He swallowed. “That catwalk from the Gatehouse to the old palace would give me a way across.”

Coll threw up his hands. “You plan to go back into the Gatehouse yet a third time?” he exclaimed, exasperated beyond reason.

“All I need is a ruse, a way to distract...”

“Have you lost your mind completely? Another ruse won’t do the trick! They’ll be looking for you this go-around! They’ll spy you out within two seconds of the time you...”

“Coll!” Par’s own temper slipped.

“He is right,” Damson Rhee said quietly.

Par wheeled on her, then caught himself. He jerked back toward his brother. Coll dared him to speak, red-faced, but silent. Par shook his head. Then I’ll have to come up with another way.“

Coll looked suddenly weary. “The truth of the matter is, there isn’t any other way.”

“There might be one.” It was Damson who spoke, her low voice compelling. “When the armies of the Warlock Lord besieged Tyrsis in the time of Balinor Buckhannah, the city was betrayed twice over from within—once by the front gates, the second time by passageways that ran beneath the city and the cliffs backing the old palace to the cellars beneath. Those passageways might still exist, giving us access to the ravine from the palace side.”

Coll looked away wordlessly, disgust registering on his blocky features. Clearly, he had hoped for better than this from Damson.

Par hesitated, then said carefully, “That all happened more than four hundred years ago. I had forgotten about those passageways completely—even telling the stories as often as I do.” He hesitated again. “Do you know anything about them—where they are, how to get into them, whether they can be traversed anymore?”

Damson shook her head slowly, ignoring the deliberate lift of Coll’s eyebrows. She said, “But I know someone who might. If he will talk to us.” Then she met Coll’s gaze and held it. There was a sudden softness in her face that surprised Par. “We all have a right to make our own choices,” she said quietly.

Coll’s eyes seemed haunted. Par studied his brother momentarily, debating whether to say anything to him, then turned abruptly to Damson. “Will you take me to this person—tonight?”

She stood up then, and both Valemen rose with her. She looked small between them, almost delicate; but Par knew the perception was a false one. She seemed to deliberate before saying, “That depends. You must first promise me something. When you go back into the Pit, however you manage it, you will take Coll and me with you.”

There was a stunned silence. It was hard to tell which of the Valemen was more astonished. Damson gave them a moment to recover, then said to Par, “I’m not giving you any choice in the matter, I’m afraid. I cannot. You would feel compelled to do the right thing and leave us both behind to keep us safe—which would be exactly the wrong thing. You need us with you.”

Then she turned to Coll. “And we need to be there, Coll. Don’t you see? This won’t end, any of it, not Federation oppression nor Shadowen evil nor the sickness that infects all the Lands, until someone makes it end. Par may have a chance to do that. But we cannot let him try it alone. We have to do whatever we can to help because this is our fight, too. We cannot just sit back and wait for someone else to come along and help us. No one will. If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that.”

She waited, looking from one to the other. Coll looked confused, as if he thought there ought to be an obvious alternative to his choices but couldn’t for the life of him recognize what it was. He glanced briefly at Par and away again. Par had gone blank, his gaze focused on the floor, his face devoid of expression.

“It is bad enough that I must go,” he said finally.

“Worse than bad,” Coll muttered.

Par ignored him, looking instead at Damson. “What if it turns out that only I can go in?”

Damson came up to him, took his hands in her own and squeezed them. “That won’t happen. You know it won’t.” She leaned up and kissed him softly. “Are we agreed?”

Par took a deep breath, and a frightening sense of inevitability welled up inside. Coll and Damson Rhee—he was risking both their lives by going after the Sword. He was being stubborn beyond reason, intractable to the point of foolhardiness; he was letting himself be caught up in his own self-perceived needs and ambitions. There was every reason to believe that his insistence would kill them all.

Then give it up, he whispered fiercely to himself. Just walk away.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t.

“Agreed,” he said.

There was a brief silence. Coll looked up and shrugged. “Agreed,” he echoed quietly.

Damson reached up to touch Par’s face, then stepped over to Coll and hugged him. Par was more than a little surprised when his brother hugged her back.