if the Mole was a Shadowen? So many questions again, and no
answers to be found. There was no one he could trust, he thought
bleakly-no one but Coll. And Damson. He trusted Damson.
Didn’t he?
He beat back the sudden cloud of doubt that threatened to
envelop him. He could not afford to be asking such questions
now. It was too late to make any difference, if the answers were
the wrong ones. He was risking everything on his judgment of
Damson, and he must believe that his judgment was correct.
Thinking again of the Shadowen enigma, the mystery of who
and what they were and how they could be so many things, he
was led to wonder suddenly if there were Shadowen in the out-
law camp, if the enemy they were so desperately seeking to
remain hidden from was in fact already among them. The traitor
that Padishar Creel sought could be a Shadowen, one that only
looked human, that only seemed to be one of them. How were
they to know? Was magic the only test that would reveal them?
Was that to be the purpose of the Sword of Shannara, to reveal
the true identity of the enemy they sought? It was what he had
wondered from the moment Allanon had sent him in search of
the Sword. But how impossible it seemed that the talisman could
be meant for such endless, exhausting work. It would take for-
ever to test it against everyone who might be a Shadowen.
He heard in his mind the whisper of Allanon’s voice.
Only through the Sword can truth be revealed and only
through truth shall the Shadawen be overcome.
Truth. The Sword of Shannara was a talisman that revealed
truth, destroyed lies, and laid bare what was real against the
pretense of what only seemed so. That was the use to which
Shea Ohmsford had put it when the little Valeman had defeated
the Warlock Lord. It must be the use for which the talisman was
meant this time as well.
They climbed a long, spiral staircase to a landing. A door in
the wall before them stood closed and bolted. The wall behind
and the ceiling above were lost in shadow. The drop below
seemed endless. They crowded together on the landing while
the Mole worked the bolts, first one, then another, then a third.
One by one, the metal grating softly, they slid free. The Mole
twisted the handle slowly. Par could hear the sound of his own
breathing, of his pulse, and of his heartbeat, all working in
response to the fear that coursed through him. He could feel
Shadowen watching, hidden in the dark. He could sense their
presence. It was irrational, imagined-but there nevertheless.
Then the Mole had the door open, and they slipped quickly
through.
They found themselves in a tiny, windowless room with a
stairwell in the exact center that spiraled down into utter black-
ness and a door to the left that opened into an empty corridor.
Light filtered through slits in the walls of the corridor, faint and
wispy. At the corridor’s far end, maybe a hundred feet away, a
second door stood closed.
The Mole motioned them into the corridor and shut the first
door behind them. Par edged over to one of the slits in the wall
and peered out. They were somewhere in the palace, above-
ground again. Cliffs rose up before him, their slopes a tangle of
pine trees. Above the trees, clouds hung thick across the sky-
line, their underbellies flat and hard and sullen.
Par drew back. Darkness was beginning to give way to day-
light. It was almost morning. They had been walking all night.
“Lovely Damson,” the Mole was saying softly as Par joined
them. “There is a catwalk ahead that crosses the palace court.
Using it will save us considerable tune. If you and your friends
will keep watch, I will make certain the shadow things are no-
where about.”
Damson nodded. “Where do you want us?”
Where he wanted them was at each end of the corridor, lis-
tening for the sound of anything that might approach. It was
agreed that Coil would remain where he was. Par and Damson