paintings, and lay down.
He was still listening to the sound of water dripping when
he finally drifted off to sleep.
When he woke again, he was alone. The couch where
Padishar had been sleeping was empty and the Mole’s chambers
were silent. All of the candles were extinguished save for one.
Par blinked against the sharp pinprick of light, then peered
about into the gloom, wondering where Padishar had gone. He
rose, stretched, walked to the candle, used it to light the others,
and watched the darkness shrink to scattered shadows.
He had no idea how long he had slept; time lost all meaning
The Talismans of Shannara 23
within these catacombs. He was hungry again, so he made
himself a meal from some bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, and
consumed it at the three-legged table. As he ate, he stared fix-
edly across the room at the Sword of Shannara, propped in the
comer, surrounded by the Mole’s children.
Speak to me, he thought. Why won’t you speak to me?
He finished eating, shoving the food in his mouth without
tasting it, drinking the ale without interest, his eyes and his
mind focused on the Sword. He pushed back from the table,
walked over to the blade, lifted it away from its resting place,
and carried it back to his chair. He balanced it on his knees for
a time, staring down at it. Then finally he pulled it free of its
scabbard and held it up before him, turning it this way and
that, letting the candlelight reflect off its polished surface.
His eyes glittered with frustration.
Talisman or trickster—which are you?
If the former, something was decidedly wrong between
them. He was the descendant of Shea Ohmsford and his Elven
blood was as good as that of his famous ancestor, he should
have been able to call up the power of the Sword with ease. If
it was the Sword in truth, of course. Otherwise … He shook
his head angrily. No, this was the Sword of Shannara. It was.
He could feel it in his bones. Everything he knew of the
Sword, everything he had learned of it, all the songs he had
sung of it over the years, told him that this was it. Rimmer
Dall would not have given him an imitation; the First Seeker
was too eager that Par accept his guidance in the matter of his
magic to risk alienating him with a lie that would eventually
be discovered. Whatever else Rimmer Dall might be, he was
clever—far too clever to play such a simple game …
Par left the thought unfinished, not as certain as he wanted
to be that he was right. Still, it felt right, his reasoning sound,
his sense of things balanced, Rimmer Dall wanted him to ac-
cept that he was a Shadowen. A Shadowen could not use the
Elven magic of the blade because …
Because why?
The truth would destroy him, perhaps, and his own magic
would not allow it?
But when the Sword of Shannara had burned him in the Pit
after he had destroyed Coil and the Shadowen with him, hadn’t
24 The Talismans of Shannara
it been the blade’s magic that had reacted to his rather than the
other way around? Which magic was resisting which?
He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching tightly about the
Sword’s carved handle. The raised hand with its torch pressed
against his palm, the lines sharp and clear. What was the prob-
lem between them? Why couldn’t he find the answer?
He shoved the blade back into its scabbard and sat unmoving
in the candle-lit silence, thinking. AUanon had given him the
charge to find the Sword of Shannara. Him, not Wren or Walker,
and they had Elven Shannara blood as well, didn’t they?
AUanon had sent him. Familiar questions repeated themselves in
his mind. Wouldn’t the Druid have known if such a charge was
pointless? Even as a shade, wouldn’t he have been able to sense
that Par’s magic was a danger, that Par himself was the enemy?
Unless Rimmer Dall was right and the Shadowen weren’t the
enemy—the Druids were. Or perhaps they were all enemies of a