faced nevertheless, and she looked back at Par. “We are some
distance from the Pit still. We have to use the catacombs under
the palace to reach the cliff hatch that will let us in. Mole knows
the way. But we have to be very careful. There were no Shad-
owen in the tunnels yesterday when he explored, but that may
have changed.”
Par glanced at the Mole. He was squatting down against one
wall, barely visible at the edge of the torchlight, eyes gleaming
as he watched them. One hand stroked the fur of his arm stead-
ily.
The Valeman felt a twinge of uneasiness. He shifted his feet
until he had placed Damson between the Mole and himself.
Then he said, so that he believed only she could hear, “Are you
sure we can trust him?”
Damson’s pale face did not change expression, but her eyes
seemed to look somewhere far, far away. “As sure as I can be.”
She paused. “Do you think we have a choice?”
Par shook his head slowly.
Damson’s smile was faint and ironic. “Then I guess there is
no point worrying about it, is there?”
She was right, of course. There was no help for his suspicions
unless he agreed to turn back, and Par Ohmsford had already
decided that he would never do that. He wished that he could
test the magic of the wishsong, that he had thought to do so
earlier-just to see if it could do what he thought it could. That
would provide some reassurance. Yet he knew, even as he com-
pleted the thought, that there was no way to test the magic, at
least not in the way that he needed to-that it would not reveal
itself. He could make images, yes. But he could not summon
the wishsong’s real power, not until there was something to use
it against. And maybe not even then.
But the power was there, he insisted once again, a desperate
reassurance against the whisperings of his ghosts. It had to be.
“We won’t be needing this anymore,” Damson said, gestur-
ing with the torch. She handed it to Par, then fished through her
pockets and produced a pair of strange white stones streaked
with silver. She kept one and handed him the other. “Put out
the torch,” she instructed him. “Then place your hands tightly
about the stone to warm it. When you feel its heat, open them.”
Par doused the torch in the dust, smothering the flame. The
room went completely black. He put the strange stone between
his hands and held it there. After a few seconds, he could feel
it grow warm. When he took one hand away, the stone gave off
a meager silver light. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the light
was strong enough to reveal the faces of his companions and an
area beyond of several feet.
“If the light begins to dim, warm the stone again with your
hands.”
She closed her hand over his, tight about the stone, held it
there, then lifted it away. The silver light radiated even more
brightly. Par smiled in spite of himself, the amazement in his
eyes undisguised. “That’s a nice trick. Damson,” he breathed.
“A bit of my own magic, Valeman,” she said softly, and her
eyes fixed on him. “Street magic from a street girl. Not so
wonderful as the real thing, but reliable. No smoke, no smell,
easily tucked away. Better than torchlight, if we want to stay
hidden.”
“Better,” he agreed.
The Mole took them from the room then, guiding them into
the black without the benefit of any light at all, apparently need-
ing none. Damson followed, carrying one stone, Par came after
carrying the other, and Coil once again brought up the rear.
They went out through a second door into a passageway that
twisted about and ran past other doors and rooms. They moved
soundlessly, their boots scraping softly on the stone, their
breathing a shallow hiss, their voices stilled.
Par found himself wondering again about the Mole. Could
the Mole be trusted? Was the little fellow what he claimed to be
or something else? The Shadowen could appear as anyone. What