one. Then, later, at the Hadeshom, 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 mo-
ment 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 chil-
dren. So what if it has changed again, this time in me?”
Coil 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 Shan-
nara all those years ago had the power to seek out that which
was hidden from the holder.”
“Par!” Coil breathed his name softly, me astonishment ap-
parent 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. Coil; there was no illusion in what it did. But it
did respond in a recognizable way. It sought out what was hid-
den from me, and I think it did so because subconsciously I
willed it.” His voice was fierce. “Coil. 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. Coil’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 de-
fend the holder against danger. They could be a weapon of tre-
mendous 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, Coil. 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, blan-
keting 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 num-
ber as a result of the previous night’s disturbance, were already
sweating and irritable when the bearded gravedigger approached
from out of the backstreets 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 gravedigger ad-
vised. “Even the dead deserve some respect.”
The soldier looked at him suspiciously, then shoved the sword