The Talismans of Shannara

Chapter Twenty-One

The rains that had inundated the Westland Elves and the pursuing Federation army were still thunderheads on the western horizon the morning the two ragged scrapwomen led their elderly blind father through the gates of Tyrsis with the other tradesmen, merchants, drummers, peddlers, and itinerant hucksters who had come in from the outlying communities to barter their wares. As with most of the others that sought entry, they had spent the night camped before the gates, anxious to enter early so as to secure the best stalls in the open market where the trading and bartering took place. They shuffled along as quickly as they could manage, the women slowed by the old man as he groped his way uncertainly, supported on either side, his feet directed carefully along the dusty way.

Federation guards lined the entries through the outer and inner walls, checking everyone who passed, pulling aside those who seemed suspicious. It was unusual for them to worry about who was entering the city, for the emphasis in the past had been directed toward worrying about who might leave. But Padishar Creel, the leader of the free-born, was to be executed at noon of the following day, and the Federation was concerned that an attempt would be made to rescue him. It was believed that such a rescue would fail, no matter how well conceived, because the city garrison was at full strength, some five thousand men strong, and security measures were extraordinary. Still, nothing was to be left to chance, so the guards at the gates had been given explicit instructions to make certain of everyone.

They chose to pull aside the scrapwomen and the old man. It was a random selection, an approach the guard commander had settled on early, a compromise between stopping everyone, which would take forever, and no one, which would seem a dereliction of his duty. The three were ordered to stand apart from the throng, to occupy a space in the center of the court between the city’s walls, there to wait for questioning. Scattered glances from the crowd were directed their way, furtive and suspicious. Better you than me, they seemed to say. Dust rose with the crowd’s passing, and even now, before the heat of the day had settled in, the air had a hot, sticky feel to it.

“Names,” the duty officer said to the scrapwomen and the old man.

“Asra, Wintath, and our father, Criape,” the one with the ragged, tangled reddish hair said. Sores dappled the skin of her face, and she smelled like old rubbish.

The officer glanced at the other woman, who promptly opened her mouth to reveal blackened teeth and a raw, red throat in which the tongue was missing. The officer swallowed.

“She can’t speak,” the first said, grinning.

“What’s your village?”

“Spekese Run,” said the woman. “Know of it?”

The officer shook his head. He studied the piles of rags they carried strapped to their backs. Worthless stuff. He glanced at the old man, whose head was lowered into his cowl. Couldn’t see much of his face. The officer stepped forward and pushed back the cowl. The old man’s head jerked up and his blackened lids snapped back to reveal a thick, milky fluid where his eyes should have been. The officer gagged.

“On with you.” He beckoned, moving quickly away to question the next unfortunate.

The women and the old man shuffled off obediently, slipping back into the crowd, passing through the cordon of guards that lined the gates of the inner wall, moving on from there into the city. They were well off the Tyrsian Way and into the side streets where there were no Federation guards before Matty Roh spit out the dyed fruit skin pasted to the inside of her mouth and said, “I told you this was too risky!”

“We got through, didn’t we?” Morgan snapped irritably. “Stop complaining and get me where I can wash this stuff out of my eyes!”

“Be silent, the both of you!” Damson Rhee ordered, and hurried them on.

Tempers were short by now. They had fought bitterly about who was to come into the city, a fight precipitated by the news of Padishar Creel’s impending execution. A day and a half was not nearly enough time to effect a rescue, but it was all they had to work with and Morgan had decided that his original plan needed changing. Instead of Matty and Damson going into the city and finding the Mole on their own, he would enter as well. At best they had today and tonight to track down the Mole, bring Chandos and the others of the free-born in through the underground tunnels, devise a rescue plan for Padishar, and set it in motion. Morgan insisted that he needed to get inside the city immediately in order to determine what must be done. He could not afford to wait for nightfall and the Mole to get a look at things. Damson and Matty were equally insistent that any attempt to sneak him past the guards would jeopardize them all. It would be hard enough for just the two of them, but doubly dangerous if they were forced to take him in as well. Why couldn’t he do his thinking where he was? Hadn’t he spent enough time in the city by now to know where everything was?

So it had gone, but in the end Morgan won the argument by pointing out that he couldn’t do any thinking at all until he knew where Padishar was being kept, and he couldn’t know that unless he went into the city. The price for his victory was an implacable demand by both women that he leave his Sword behind. A disguise would possibly work, but not if he carried that weapon. Chances of discovery were simply too great. Despite his protests, neither woman would budge. The Sword of Leah had stayed behind with Chandos.

Damson took them down an alleyway to a side door in an abandoned building, pushed open the door, and guided them inside. The interior was close and airless, and dust hung in the air in visible layers. She closed the door behind them. They moved across the room to a second door and from there into another room, equally stifling. A tiny courtyard opened beyond, and they crossed through the early morning shadows and the faint scent of wildflowers inexplicably growing in one sundrenched corner of the otherwise withered yard to an open-fronted shed filled with old tools and workbenches. Damson left her companions there and went off with a tin bowl. When she returned, the bowl was filled with water, and the three sat down to wash themselves off.

When they were scrubbed clean again, they dug through the bundles of rags and pulled out their good clothes. Stripping off the old, they redressed and sat down on a pair of the workbenches to discuss what would happen next.

“I’ll go out first to try to make contact with the Mole,” Damson said, still combing out the knots from her tangled red hair. Carefully she tied it all back and tucked it into a scarf. “There are signs I can leave that he will understand. When that’s done, I’ll come back and we’ll see what we can discover about Padishar. Then I’ll have to put you somewhere while I go wait for the Mole. He might not come if he sees all of us—he doesn’t know either of you and he will be very careful after what’s happened. If he comes, he and I will go after Chandos and the rest, and we will meet up with you again by dawn. If he doesn’t come—”

“Don’t say it,” Morgan cut her short. “Just do the best you can.”

Damson looked at Matty. “How well do you know the city?”

“Well enough to stay out of trouble.”

Damson nodded. “If anything happens to me, you will have to get Morgan out of here.”

“Wait a minute!” Morgan exclaimed. “I’m not going to—”

“You are going to do what you are told. Your plans count for nothing if I fail. If the Federation has the Mole or if they capture me, there isn’t anything more to be done.”

Morgan stared at her, silenced by the anger and determination he found in her green eyes.

Matty took his arm and moved him back a step. “I’ll look after him,” she promised.

Damson nodded, and her face softened a shade. She rose, wrapped her cloak about, gave them a short nod, and disappeared back the way she had come. Morgan stared after her, feeling helpless. She was right. There was nothing he could do if she failed. The success of any plan he devised depended on the girl and the Mole bringing Chandos and the free-born into the city. Without the free-born or the magic of his Sword, he would not be able to help Padishar. Such a slender thread for events to hang upon, he thought grimly.

“Care for something to eat?” Matty Roh asked cheerfully, her dark eyes questioning, and offered him an apple.

They waited within the shade of the storage shed, secluded and alone in the little, closed-about courtyard until almost midday. The air grew steamy and thick with heat, and the sun burned a slow trail across the stones and withered grass, climbing the north wall east to west like the spread of spilled paint. Morgan dozed for a time, weary from the long march in and the uncertain night sleeping before the gates in his uncomfortable disguise. He found himself thinking of Par and Coll and the days before the Shadowen and Allanon, of the times they had spent hunting and fishing in the Highlands, of his own boyhood, of the long slow days when life had seemed an exciting game. He thought of Steff and Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. He thought of Quickening. They were memories of a past that lost a little of its color with the passing of every day. They all seemed to have disappeared from his life a very long time ago.

The sun was directly overhead when Damson Rhee finally returned. She was flushed with the heat and covered with dust, but there was excitement in her eyes.

“They have Padishar within the same watchtower where they held me,” she announced, dropping down on one of the benches and peeling off her cloak. She took a long drink from the cup of water Matty Roh offered her. “It seems to be common knowledge. They plan to take him to the main gates at noon tomorrow and hang him in view of the city.”

“How is he?” Morgan asked quickly. “Did anyone say?”

She shook her head, swallowing. “No one has seen him. But talk among the soldiers is that he’ll walk to his end.”

She glanced at Matty Roh. The other woman frowned. “Common knowledge, is it?” She gave Damson a thoughtful look. “I don’t much trust common knowledge. Common knowledge often ends up meaning ‘false rumor’ in my experience.”

Damson hesitated. “Everyone seemed so sure.” She cut herself short. “But I guess we have to make certain, don’t we?”

Matty Roh leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands, her boyish face intense. “You’ve told me how they used you to trap Padishar.” Morgan stared. This was the first he’d heard of that. How much more had Damson told her that he didn’t know? “It worked once, so chances are pretty good they’ll try it again. But they’ll change the rules. They’ll make sure no one gets away this time. Instead of using live bait, maybe they’ll use... common knowledge.”

Morgan nodded. He should have thought of that. “A decoy. They expect a rescue attempt, so they misdirect it. They keep Padishar somewhere else.”

Matty nodded solemnly. “I would guess.”

Damson came back to her feet. “I’ve left signs for the Mole that he can’t miss. If he’s coming, he’ll come tonight. I’ve got until then to go back out and try to find where Padishar really is.”

“I’m coming as well.” Morgan rose and reached for his cloak.

“No.” Matty Roh’s voice was sudden and firm. She stood up and came between them. “Neither of you is going.” She reached for her cloak. “I am.” She looked at Morgan. “You might be recognized, now that you’ve shed your disguise, and you can’t go where you might learn anything in any case. You are better off staying here.” She turned to Damson. “And you can’t afford to risk yourself further. After all, they know who you are, too. It was chancy enough going out this morning. Whatever happens, you have to stay safe until you can meet the Mole and bring the others in. You can’t do that if you’re discovered and find yourself in Padishar Creel’s company. Besides, I’m better at this sort of thing than you are. I know how to listen, how to find things out. Discovering secrets is what I do.”

They stared at her without speaking for a moment. When Morgan started to object, Damson silenced him with a look. “She’s right. Padishar would agree.”

Again Morgan tried to speak, but Damson overrode him, saying, “We’ll wait here for you, Matty. Be careful.”

Matty nodded and slung her cloak over her shoulder. Her slim face was tight and smooth across the set of her jaw. “Don’t wait if I’m not back by dark.” She gave Morgan a quick, ironic smile. “Keep me safe in your thoughts, Highlander.”

Then she was across the courtyard and through the door of the room beyond and gone.

They waited for Matty Roh all day, hunched down in the shelter of the shed, trying to take what small comfort they could from the shade it provided. The sun passed slowly west, the heat building in its wake, the air still and dusty within the airless court.

To help pass the time, Morgan began telling Damson how Padishar and he had fought together against the Federation at the Jut. But talking of it did not ease his boredom as he had hoped. Instead it brought back a memory he had hoped forgotten—not of Steff or Teel or the Creeper or even his shattering battle within the catacombs, but of the terrible, frightening sense of incompleteness he had felt when deprived of the magic of the Sword of Leah. Discovering its magic again after years of dormancy through generations of his family had opened doors that he could not help but feel had been better left closed. The magic had saddled him with such dependency, an elixir of power that was stronger than reason or self-denial, that was insidious in its intent to dominate, that was absolute in its need to command. He remembered how that power had bound him, how he had suffered its loss afterward, how it had stripped him of his courage and resolve when he had needed both—until now, in possession of that power once more, he was terrified of what its renewed use would cost him. It made him think again of Par, cursed, not blessed, with the magic of the wishsong, a magic potentially ten times stronger than that of the Sword of Leah, a magic with which he had been forced to contend since his birth, and which now had evolved in some frightening way so that it threatened to consume him completely. Morgan thought he had been lucky in a way the Valeman had not. There had been many to give aid to the Highlander—Steff, Padishar, Walker, Quickening, Horner Dees, and now Damson and Matty Roh. Each had brought a measure of reason and balance to his life, keeping him from losing himself in the despair that might otherwise have claimed him. Some had been taken from him forever, and some were distanced by events. But they had been there when he had needed them. Whom had Par been able to rely upon? Coll, stripped away by Shadowen trickery? Padishar, gone as well? Walker or Wren or any of the others who had started out on this endless journey? Cogline? Himself? Certainly not himself. No, there had been only Damson and the Mole—and mostly only Damson. Now she was gone, too, and Par was alone again.

One thought led to another, and although he had started talking of Padishar and the Jut, he found himself turned about in the end, speaking once more of what haunted him most, of Par, his friend, whom he had failed, he felt, over and over again. He had promised Par he would stay with him; he had sworn to come north as his protector. He had failed to keep that promise, and he found himself wishing that he might have another chance, just one, to make up for what he had given away.

Damson spoke of the Valeman as well, and the timbre of her voice betrayed her feelings more surely than any words, a whisper of her own sense of loss, of her own perceived failing. She had chosen Padishar Creel over Par, and while the choice could be justified, there was no comfort for her in the knowledge.

“I am tired of making choices, Morgan Leah,” she whispered to him at one point. They had not spoken for a time, lying Lack within their shelter, sipping at warm water to keep their bodies from dehydrating. Her hand gestured futilely. “I am tired of being forced to choose, or constantly having to make decisions I do not want to make, because whatever I decide, I know I am going to hurt someone.” She shook her head, lines of pain etched across her brow. “I am just plain tired, Morgan, and I don’t know if I can go on anymore.”

There were tears in her eyes, generated by thoughts and feelings hidden from him. He shook his head. “You will go on because you must, Damson. People depend on you to do so. You know that. Padishar now. Par later.” He straightened. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him, you and I. We won’t stop until we do. We can’t be tired before then, can we?”

He sounded condescending to himself and didn’t like it. But she nodded in response and brushed away the tears, and they went back to waiting for Matty Roh.

Nightfall came, and she still hadn’t returned. Shadows blotted away the light, and the sky was darkening quickly and filling with stars. West, beyond where they could see, the storm front continued to approach, and within the walls of the city the air began to cool with its coming.

Damson rose. “I can’t wait any longer, Highlander. I have to go now if I am to find the Mole and still have time to bring the free-born into the city.” She pulled on her cloak and tied it about her. “Wait here for Matty. When she comes, find out what you can that will help us.”

“When she comes,” Morgan repeated. “Assuming she does.”

She reached down to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Whatever happens, I will come back for you as quickly as I can.”

He nodded. “Good luck, Damson. Be careful.”

She smiled and disappeared across the darkening courtyard into the shadows. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the stone and faded away into silence.

Morgan sat alone in the gloom and listened to the sounds of the city slowly quiet and die. Overhead, clouds moved across the stars and began to screen them away. The night darkened, and a strange hush settled over the bluff. Padishar, he thought, hang on, we’re coming. Somehow, we’re coming.

He tried sleeping and could not. He tried thinking of something he could do, but everything involved going out from his hiding place, and if he did that he might not get back again. He would have to wait. Rescue plans crowded his mind, but they were as ephemeral as smoke, based on speculation, not on fact, and useless. He wished he had brought the Sword of Leah so that he would not feel so defenseless. He wished he had made better choices in his efforts to aid his friends. He wished himself into a dark corner and was forced to stop wishing for fear that he would find himself paralyzed by regrets.

It was nearing midnight when he heard the scrape of boots on the stone of the courtyard and looked up from his light doze to see Matty Roh materialize in the fading starlight. He jerked upright, and she hushed him to silence. She crossed to where he waited and sat next to him, breathing heavily.

“I ran the last mile,” she said. “I was afraid you would be gone.”

“No.” He waited. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him, and her eyes were haunted. “Damson?”

“Gone in search of the Mole, then off to bring Chandos and the rest through the tunnels. She’ll meet us back here by dawn.”

The smile she gave was anxious and searching. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled back, but the smile seemed wrong, and he let it drop. “What happened, Matty?”

“I found him.”

Morgan took a deep breath. “Tell me,” he urged softly, sensing she should not be rushed. There was a sheen of sweat on her skin, and that strange look in her eyes.

She bent so that their shoulders touched. Her boyish, delicate features were taut, and there was an urgency that radiated as surely as light. “I began at the ale houses, looking and listening. I made some easy friends, soldiers, a junior officer. I got what I could from them and kept moving. Padishar’s name was mentioned, but just in passing, in connection with the execution. Night came, and I still hadn’t learned where they were keeping him.”

She swallowed, reached for the water tin, scooped out a cup, and drank deeply. He could feel the strength in her slim body as it moved against his own.

She turned back. “I was certain they were keeping him somewhere people would avoid. The watchtower was a ruse, so where else would he be? There are prisons, but word would leak from there. It had to be someplace else, a place no one would want to go.”

Morgan paled. “The Pit.”

She nodded. “Yes.” She kept her eyes fixed on him. “I went into the People’s Park and found the Gatehouse heavily guarded. Why would that be? I wondered. I waited until an officer emerged, one highly placed, one who shares. I followed him, then sat with him to drink. I let him persuade me to go with him to a private place. When I had him alone, I put a knife to his throat and asked him questions. He was evasive, but I was able to persuade him to admit what I already knew—that Padishar was being held in his cells.”

“But he is alive?”

“Alive so that he can be executed publicly. They don’t want rumors floating about afterwards that he might have escaped. They want everyone to see him die.”

They stared at each other in the dark. The Pit, Morgan was thinking, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had hoped never to go back there again, never even to come close. He thought of the things that lived there, the Shadowen misfits, the monsters trapped by the barrier of magic that had shattered the Sword of Leah...

He brushed the thought aside. The Pit. At least he knew what he was up against. He could devise a plan with that.

“Did you learn anything else?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. He could see the pulse beat at her throat, the black helmet of her hair a frame about her delicate face.

“And the officer?”

There was a long silence as she looked into his eyes, seeing something beyond and far away. Then she gave him an empty smile.

“When I was finished with him, I cut his throat.”