to use the Sword of Shannara to give Coil what he needed to
break his shackles—recognition of who and what he had be-
come, understanding of how he had been subverted. Truth, the
special province of the Sword, would help him to escape. Par
had been certain that it really was the Sword of Shannara he
possessed because the magic had revealed itself when Coil had
come at him above Tyrsis. Triggered in the heat of their strug-
gle, it had spiraled down through them both, letting Par know
that Coil was alive and giving Coil a terrifying glimpse of
what he had become. Let the magic of the Sword come into
his brother. Par had believed, and Coil would be set free.
There were tears in his eyes as he remembered the intensity
in Par’s face as they stood locked in battle in the fury of that
storm. Again he saw his brother’s lips move, whispering to
him. Coll. Listen to me. Coll. Listen to the truth.
And the truth had come, blazing out of the Sword of
Shannara in a cleansing, white heat, winding down into Coil
and shattering the Shadowen magic so that he could tear off
the Mirrorshroud and cast it away forever. The truth had come,
and Coil had indeed been set free.
284 The Talismans of Shannara
But the truth had never been Par’s truth—and never Par’s to
give. It had been Coil’s—and his alone to take.
East, the sun was breaking through the diminishing storm
clouds, the grayness of dawn giving way to golden daylight.
Coil stared at it and felt as if all the sadness he had ever
known had been compressed into this single moment in time.
Par hadn’t summoned the magic of the Sword of Shannara.
Coil had. Not once, but both times, and each time without re-
alizing what he was doing or that it was his to command. Coil,
not Par, was the Ohmsford for whom the Sword was meant
But the truth here, as in so many things, was as elusive as
smoke and took time to understand. Allanon had given Coil no
charge when they had gathered at the Hadeshom—yet the
power to summon the Sword of Shannara’s magic was his. Is
was reasonable that it should be, when you thought about it.
He was Par’s brother, and like Par an heir to the Elven magic.
They shared the same Elven blood and birthright. But it was to
Par that the charge had been given, and it was on Par that ev-
erything had subsequently focused. Par had been sent to re-
cover the Sword, armored in his own magic and in his
unyielding resolve, certain of his purpose even when the others
in the little company had doubted. Par had been sent, and
Allanon must have known he would not fail. But why had they
not been told that the Sword was meant for Coil? Why had
nothing been asked of him?
His hands clasped and knotted before him. He remembered
how it had felt when he had brought the Sword’s magic to life,
an inexplicably cool white fire. Even trapped as he was in the
thrall of the Mirrorshroud he had felt it come, a flood washing
through him, sweeping everything before it. Truths broke down
the barriers of the Shadowen magic, small ones first, remem-
brances of childhood and youth, then larger ones, harsher and
more insistent, blows that stiffened his resolve, that toughened
him little by little against what was to follow. The truths were
painful, but they were healing as well, and when the last of
them was brought before him—the truth of who and what he
had become—he was able to accept it and to put an end to the
charade being played on him.
He had told the story of the Sword of Shannara a thousand
times—how the talisman had come to life in the hands of Shea
The Talismans of Shannara 285
Ohmsford five hundred years earlier, how it had revealed the
Valeman to himself and then unmasked the Warlock Lord. He
had told the story so often that he could recite it in his sleep.
But even that had not prepared him for what he felt now in