night, racing with the force of floodwaters down a broad,
straight channel. He knew it was not really a river, that it was
something else, but he did not know what. He saw a bridge
spanning it and raced to cross. Behind, he could hear the thing
following. He leaped onto the bridge, a wide arching span built
of timbers and iron nails. His boots made no sound as he ran.
His footfalls were silent. The bridge had seemed an avenue of
escape when he had started across it, but now he found he
could not see the far shore. He looked back, and the forest had
disappeared as well. The sky had lowered and the water had
risen, and suddenly he was in a box that was closing tightly
about.
The thing that followed him hissed. It was gaining quickly,
and it was growing as the box shrank.
Par turned then, knowing he would not escape, that he had
been led into a trap, that whatever he had hoped to gain by
running had been lost. He turned, and as he did so he remem-
bered that he was not defenseless after all, that he possessed
the power of the wishsong, and that the Elven magic could
protect him against anything. A surge of hope flooded through
him, and he summoned the magic to his defense. It exploded
through him in a wild, euphoric rush, a white light that turned
his blood to fire and his body to ice. He felt it fill him, felt it
The Talismans of Shannara 293
sheathe him in the armor of its power and turn him indestruc-
tible.
He waited for the thing that followed with anticipation.
It crept out of the night like a cat, a creature without form
or substance. He could feel it long before he saw it. He could
sense it watching, then breathing, then drawing itself up. It was
first to one side and then to the other and finally all about. But
he knew somehow that he was not in danger until he could see
its face. It twisted and swirled about him, staying carefully out
of reach, and he waited for it to tire.
Then it began to materialize, and it was not strange or mis-
shapen or even so large. Its body was the size and shape of his
own, and it stood just before him, fully revealed save for its
face. He brought the wishsong’s magic to his fingertips and
held it there like an arrow drawn back in a bowstring, taut,
straining for release, razor-sharp. The thing before him
watched. Its head was turned toward him now, but its face was
clouded and dim. Its voice whispered again.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
Then its face came together and Par was looking at himself.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
Par shuddered and sent the magic of the wishsong flying
into the thing. The thing caught it, and it was gone. Par sent
the magic a second time, a hammer-blow of power that would
smash the creature back into smoke. The thing swallowed it as
if it were air. His face smiled back at him, hollow-looking and
ragged about the edges, a mirage threatening to disappear back
into the heat.
Don’t you know?
Don’t you see?
The voice whispered, sly, condescending, and hateful, and
he attacked again, over and over, the magic flying out of him.
But something strange was happening. The more he called
upon the magic, the more pleased the thing seemed. He could
feel its satisfaction as if it were palpable. He could sense its
pleasure. The thing was changing, growing more substantial
rather than less, feeding on the magic, drawing it in.
Don’t you understand?
Par gasped and stepped back, aware now that he was chang-
ing as well, losing shape and definition, disintegrating like
294 The Talismans of Shannam
burned wood turned to ash. He groped at himself in despai.
and saw his hands pass through his body. The thing came
closer, reaching out. He saw himself reflected in its eyes.
Shadowen. Shadowen.
He saw himself, and he realized that there was no longer
any difference between them. He had become the thing.
He screamed as it took him in its arms and slowly drew him