outside the remote wilderness areas where Federation rule did
not yet extend. The wishsong was the last of the Ohmsford
magic. It had been passed down through ten generations to reach
him, the gift skipping some members of his family altogether,
picking and choosing on a whim. Coil didn’t have it. His parents
didn’t. In fact, no one in the Ohmsford family had had it since
his great-grandparents had returned from the Wesdand. But the
magic of the wishsong had been his from the time he was born,
the same magic that had come into existence almost three hun-
dred years ago with his ancestor Jair. The stories told him this,
the legends. Wish for it, sing for it. He could create images so
lifelike in the minds of his listeners that they appeared to be
real. He could create substance out of air.
That was what had brought him to Varfleet. For three centu-
ries the Ohmsford family had handed down stories of the Elven
house of Shannara. The practice had begun with Jan”. In truth,
it had begun long before that, when the stories were not of the
magic because it had not yet been discovered but of the old
world before its destruction in the Great Wars and the tellers
were the few who had survived that frightening holocaust. But
Jair was the first to have use of the wishsong to aid in the telling,
to give substance to the images created from his words, to make
his tales come alive in the minds of those who heard them. The
tales were of the old days: of the legends of the Elven house of
Shannara; of the Druids and their Keep at Paranor; of Elves and
Dwarves; and of the magic that ruled their lives. The tales were
of Shea Ohmsford and his brother Flick and their search to find
the Sword of Shannara; of Wil Ohmsford and the beautiful,
tragic Elven girl Amberie and their struggle to banish the De-
mon hordes back into the Forbidding; of Jair Ohmsford and his
sister Brin and their journey into the fortress of Graymark and
confrontation with the Mord Wraiths and the Ddatch; of the
Druids Allanon and Bremen; of the Elven King Eventine Eles-
sedil; of warriors such as Balinor Buckhannah and Stee Jans; of
heroes many and varied. Those who had command of the wish-
song made use of its magic. Those who did not relied on simple
words. Ohmsfords had come and gone, many carrying the sto-
ries with them to distant lands. Yet for three generations now,
no member of the family had told the stories outside the Vale.
No one had wanted to risk being caught.
It was a considerable risk. The practice of magic in any form
was outlawed in the Four Lands-or at least anywhere the Fed-
eration governed, which was practically the same thing. It had
been so for the past hundred years. In all that time no Ohmsford
had left the Vale. Par was the first. He had grown tired of telling
the same stories to the same few listeners over and over. Others
needed to hear the stories as well, to know the truth about the
Druids and the magic, about the struggle that preceded the age
in which they now lived. His fear of being caught was out-
weighed by the calling he felt. He made his decision despite the
objections of his parents and Coil. Coil, ultimately, decided to
come with him-just as he always did whenever he thought Par
needed looking after. Varfleet was to be the beginning, a city
where magic was still practiced in minor forms, an open secret
defying intervention by the Federation. Such magic as was found
in Varfleet was small stuff really and scarcely worth the trouble.
Callahom was only a protectorate of the Federation, and Var-
fleet so distant as to be almost into the free territories. It was
not yet army occupied. The Federation so far had disdained to
bother with it.
But Seekers? Par shook his head. Seekers were another mat-
ter altogether. Seekers only appeared when there was a serious
intent on the part of the Federation to stamp out a practice of