Druid magic on the ancient weapon, and the legacy of that gift
or curse—take your choice—was a binersweet taste that once
experienced cried out for more.
The Talismans of Shannara 279
As did the wishsong for Par. As did all the magic that ever
was or had ever been—siren songs of power that transcended
everything in their compelling, inexorable need to be sung.
He smiled darkly. Be careful what you wish for. Wasn’t that
the old admonition to those who begged for what they did not
have?
The smile faded. Maybe he would find out when it came
time to summon the Sword’s magic again—as summon it he
surely must, sooner or later. Maybe Quickening’s healing
touch, the magic that had restored his talisman, would prove in
the end to be as killing as that of the Shadowen.
The thought left him feeling cold and empty and impossibly
alone. He sat motionless in the shadows, staring out across the
countryside, waiting for the darkness to claim it.
XXIV
Three days earlier another storm had passed, one mark
ediy more violent, a torrential downpour riddled by ex-
plosions of thunder and flashes of lightning and driven
by a rough-faced howling wind, the sort of deluge that came
and went regularly in the Borderlands with the buildup of late
summer pressure and heat. It swept into Callahom at dusk, in-
undated the land through the night, and disappeared south with
the coming of dawn.
In the wake of its passing a solitary figure rose from the
sodden earth at the edge of the Rainbow Lake, muddied be-
yond recognition and stooped as if weighed down with chains.
Dark eyes blinked and tried to focus. The day was late in
waking, worried perhaps that the storm might return, dark-
edged clouds lingering fitfully in the leaden skies, sunrise iron-
gray and cautious as it eased back the night’s stubborn
shadows. The figure stared out at the flat expanse of the lake,
at the light east, at the skies, at a world that was clearly unfa-
miliar. One hand held a sword that glimmered faintly where
the grass and mire caked on it were scraped down to the metal.
The figure hesitated uncertainly, then stumbled to the edge
of the lake and submerged hands and face and finally body as
well, washing and rinsing down to a tangle of rags and bare
skin.
Mud and debris swirled away in the dark waters, and Coil
Ohmsford rose to look about.
At first he could not remember anything beyond who he
was—though he was quite determined of that, as if perhaps his
identity had been in doubt once. He recognized the Rainbow
280
The Talismans of Shannara 281
Lake, the ground upon which he stood, and the country that
surrounded him. He was standing on the lake’s southern shore
west of Culhaven and north of the Battlemound. But he did not
Icnow how he had gotten there.
He looked down at the blade in his hand (Had he managed
to wash himself without releasing it?) and realized that he was
holding the Sword of Shannara.
And then the memories came back in a rush that caused him
to gasp and double over as if a blow had been delivered to his
stomach. The images hammered at him. He had been captured
by the Shadowen and imprisoned at Southwatch. He had man-
aged an escape, but in truth Rimmer Dall had managed it for
him. He had been tricked into believing that the Mirrorshroud
would conceal him when in truth it had subverted him in ways
he did not care to recall, turning him into one of them, making
him over in their image. He had lost control of himself, be-
coming something very close to animal, scouring the country-
side in search of his brother. Par, seeking him without clear
reason or purpose beyond a vague intention to cause him harm.
Cloaked in the Mirrorshroud’s dark folds, he had tracked,
found, and attacked his brother …
He was breathing rapidly through his mouth. His chest tight-
ened and his stomach churned.
His brother.
… and tried to kill him—and would have, if something
hadn’t stopped him, hadn’t driven him away.
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