forgotten—not of Steff or Teel or the Creeper or even his shat-
tering battle within the catacombs, but of the terrible, frighten-
ing sense of incompleteness he had felt when deprived of the
magic of the Sword of Leah. Discovering its magic again after
years of dormancy through generations of his family had
opened doors that he could not help but feel had been better
left closed. The magic had saddled him with such dependency,
an elixir of power that was stronger than reason or self-denial,
that was insidious in its intent to dominate, that was absolute
in its need to command. He remembered how that power had
bound him, how he had suffered its loss afterward, how it had
stripped him of his courage and resolve when he had needed
both—until now, in possession of that power once more, he
was terrified of what its renewed use would cost him. It made
him think again of Par, cursed, not blessed, with the magic of
the wishsong, a magic potentially ten times stronger than that
of the Sword of Leah, a magic with which he had been forced
to contend since his birth, and which now had evolved in some
frightening way so that it threatened to consume him com-
pletely. Morgan thought he had been lucky in a way the
Valeman had not. There had been many to give aid to the
Highlander—Steff, Padishar, Walker, Quickening, Horner
Dees, and now Damson and Matty Roh. Each had brought a
measure of reason and balance to his life, keeping him from
The Talismans of Shannara 245
losing himself in the despair that might otherwise have claimed
him. Some had been taken from him forever, and some were
distanced by events. But they had been there when he had
needed them. Whom had Par been able to rely upon? Coil,
stripped away by Shadowen trickery? Padishar, gone as well?
Walker or Wren or any of the others who had started out on
this endless journey? Cogline? Himself? Certainly not himself.
No, there had been only Damson and the Mole—and mostly
only Damson. Now she was gone, too, and Par was alone
again.
One thought led to another, and although he had started talk-
ing of Padishar and the Jut, he found himself turned about in
the end, speaking once more of what haunted him most, of Par,
his friend, whom he had failed, he felt, over and over again.
He had promised Par he would stay with him; he had sworn to
come north as his protector. He had failed to keep that prom-
ise, and he found himself wishing that he might have another
chance, just one, to make up for what he had given away.
Damson spoke of the Valeman as well, and the timbre of her
voice betrayed her feelings more surely than any words, a
whisper of her own sense of loss, of her own perceived failing.
She had chosen Padishar Creel over Par, and while the choice
could be justified, there was no comfort for her in the knowl-
edge.
“I am tired of making choices, Morgan Leah,” she whis-
pered to him at one point. They had not spoken for a time,
lying back within their shelter, sipping at warm water to keep
their bodies from dehydrating. Her hand gestured futilely. “I
am tired of being forced to choose, or constantly having to
make decisions I do not want to make, because whatever I de-
cide, I know I am going to hurt someone.” She shook her
head, lines of pain etched across her brow. “I am just plain
tired, Morgan, and I don’t know, if I can go on anymore.”
There were tears in her eyes, generated by thoughts and
feelings hidden from him. He shook his head. “You will go on
because you must. Damson. People depend on you to do so.
You know that. Padishar now. Par later.” He straightened.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him, you and I. We won’t stop until
we do. We can’t be tired before then, can we? ”
He sounded condescending to himself and didn’t like it. But
246 The Talismans of Shannara
she nodded in response and brushed away the tears, and they