the sound it made as it rushed over the bare stone walls and
across the empty courtyard was a low, sad moan. Weeds whipped
and shuddered below them and debris scattered about the court,
careening from wall to wall. There was no sign of life, no move-
ment in the shadows and murk, no Shadowen in sight.
They crossed the catwalk quickly, once they were upon it,
ignoring the creak and groan of its iron stays. They kept their
feet moving, their hands on the railing, and their eyes focused
carefully ahead, watching the palace wall draw closer. When the
crossing was completed they stepped hurriedly onto the battle-
ment, each reaching back to help the next person, grateful to be
done.
The Mole took them into a stairwell where they found a fresh
set of steps winding downward into blackness. Using the light
of the stones Damson had supplied, they descended silently.
They were close now; the stone of the wall was all that separated
them from the Pit. Par’s excitement sent the blood pumping
through him, a pounding in his ears, and his nerve endings
tightened.
Just a few more minutes . . .
At the bottom of the stairwell, there was a passageway that
ended at a weathered, ironbound wooden door. The Mole
walked to the door and stopped. When he turned back to face
them. Par knew at once what lay beyond.
“Thank you, Mole,” he said softly.
“Yes, thank you,” echoed Damson.
The Mole blinked shyly. Then he said, “You can look through
here.”
He reached up and carefully pulled back a tiny shutter that
revealed a slit in the wood. Par stepped forward and peered out.
The floor of the Pit stretched away before him, a vast, fog-
bound wilderness of trees and rock, a bottomland that was
strewn with decaying logs and tangled brush, a darkness in which
shadows moved and shapes formed and faded again like wraiths.
The wreckage of the Bridge of Sendic lay just to the right and
disappeared into the gray haze.
Par squinted into the murk a moment longer. There was no
sign of the vault that held the Sword of Shannara.
But he had seen it, right there, just beyond the wall of the
palace. The magic of the wishsong revealed it. It was out there.
He could feel its presence like a living thing.
He let Damson take a look, then Coll. When Coil stepped
back, the three of them stood facing one another.
Par slipped out of his cloak. ‘ ‘Wait for me here. Keep watch
for the Shadowen.”
“Keep watch for them yourself,” Coil said bluntly, shrug-
ging off his own cloak. “I’m going with you.”
“I’m going, too,” said Damson.
But Coil blocked her way instantly. “No, you’re not. Only
one of us can go besides Par. Look about you. Damson. Look
at where we are. We’re in a box, a trap. There is no way out of
the Pit except through this door and no way out of the palace
except back up the stairs and across the catwalk. The Mole can
watch the catwalk, but he can’t watch this door at the same time.
You have to do that.”
Damson started to object, but Coil cut her short. “Don’t
argue. Damson. You know I’m right. I’ve listened to you when
I should; this time you listen to me.”
“It doesn’t matter who listens to whom. I don’t want either
of you going,” insisted Par sharply.
Coil ignored him, shifting his short sword in his belt until it
was in front of him. “You don’t have any choice.”
“Why shouldn’t I be the one to go?” Damson demanded
angrily.
“Because he’s my brother!” Coil’s voice cracked like a whip,
and his rough features were hard. But when he spoke next, his
voice was strangely soft. “It has to be me; it’s why I came in
the first place. It’s why I’m here at all.”
Damson went still, frozen and voiceless. Her gaze shifted.
“All right,” she agreed, but her mouth was tight and angry as
she said it. She turned away. “Mole, watch the catwalk.”
The little fellow was glancing at each of them in turn, a mix