the time of Allanon! There’s been no need for it! It took another
magic to bring it awake! It took a creature like the Shadowen!
That’s why nothing happened until the magics touched …”
He trailed off as Coil stumbled over to them and dropped
down as well. One arm hung limply. “Think I broke it,” he
muttered.
He hadn’t, but he had bruised it severely enough that Par felt
it wise to bind it against his body in a cradle for a day or so.
They used their drinking water to wash themselves, bandaged
their cuts and scrapes, picked up their weapons, and stood look-
ing at each other. “The old man said there would be lots of
things hunting us,” Par whispered.
‘ I don’t know if that thing was hunting us or if we were just
unlucky enough to stumble on it.” Coil’s voice was ragged. “I
do know I don’t want to run across any more like it.”
“But if we do,” Morgan Leah said quietly and stopped. “If
we do, we have the means now to deal with them.” And he
fingered the blade of the Sword of Leah as he might have the
soft curve of a woman’s face.
Par would never forget what he felt at that moment. The mem-
ory of it would overshadow even that of their battle with the
Shadowen, a tiny piece of time preserved in perfect still life.
What he felt was jealousy. Before, he had been the one who had
possessed real magic. Now it was Morgan Leah. He still had
the wishsong, of course, but its magic paled in comparison to
that of the Highlander’s sword. It was the sword that had de-
stroyed the Shadowen. Par’s best images had proven to be little
more than an irritation.
It made him wonder if the wishsong had any real use at all.
vii
Par remembered something later that night that forced
him to come to grips with what he was feeling toward
Morgan. They had continued on to Culhaven, anxious
to complete their journey, willing to walk all night and another
day if need be rather than attempt one moment’s sleep in those
woods. They had worked their way back to the main pathway
where it ran parallel to the Silver River and pushed eastward. As
they trudged on, nudged forward by apprehension one step,
dragged backward by weariness the next, buffeted and tossed,
their thoughts strayed like grazing cattle to sweeter pastures, and
Par Ohmsford found himself thinking of the songs.
That was when he remembered that the legends had it that
the power of the Sword of Leah was literally two-edged. The
sword had been made magic by Allanon in the time of Brin
Ohmsford while the Druid was journeying east with the Vale girl
and her would-be protector, Morgan’s ancestor. Rone Leah. The
Druid had dipped the sword’s blade into the forbidden waters of
the Hadeshom and changed forever its character. It became more
than a simple blade; it became a talisman that could withstand
even the Mord Wraiths. But the magic was like all the magics
of old; it was both blessing and curse. Its power was addictive,
causing the user to become increasingly dependent. Brin Ohms-
fold had recognized the danger, but her warnings to Rone Leah
had gone unheeded. In their final confrontation with the dark
magic, it was her own power and Jair’s that had saved them and
put an end to further need for the magic of the sword. There
was no record of what had become of the weapon after-only
that it was not required and therefore not used again.
Until now. And now it seemed it might be Par’s obligation to
warn Morgan of the danger of further use of the sword’s magic.
But how was he to do that? Shades, Morgan Leah was his best
friend next to Coil, and this newfound magic Par envied so had
just saved their lives! He was knotted up with guilt and frustra-
tion at the jealousy he was feeling. How was he supposed to tell
Morgan that he shouldn’t use it? It didn’t matter that there might
be good reason to do so; it still sounded impossibly grudging.