Games played by old men and shades, Rimmer Dall mused.
Charges and quests, searches for truth. Well, he knew the truth
better than they, and the truth was that none of this mattered
because in the end the magic was all and the magic belonged
to the Shadowen.
It grated on him that despite his efforts to prevent it, both
the Elves and Paranor were back. Those he had sent to keep
the Shannara scions from succeeding had failed. The price
of their failure had been death, but that did little to assuage his
annoyance. Perhaps he should have been angry—perhaps even
a little worried. But Rimmer Dall was confident in his power,
certain of his control over events and time, assured that the fu-
ture was still his to determine. Though Teel and Pe EU had dis-
appointed him, there were others who would not.
Thrum, thrum, the magic whispered.
And so …
Rimmer Dall’s lips pursed. A little time was all that was
needed. A little time to let events he had already set in motion
follow their course, and then it would be too late for the Druid
dead and their schemes. Keep the Dark Uncle and the girl
apart. Don’t let them share their knowledge. Don’t let them
join forces.
Don’t let them find the Valemen.
What was needed was a distraction, something that would
keep them otherwise occupied. Or better still, something that
would put an end to them. Armies, of course, to grind down
the Elves and the free-bom alike. Federation soldiers and
Shadowen Creepers and whatever else he could muster to
sweep these fools from his life. But something more, some-
thing special for the Shannara children with all their magics
and Druid charms.
He considered the matter for a long time, the gray twilight
changing to night about him. The moon rose in the east, a
scythe against the black, and the stars brightened into sharp
pinpricks of silver. Their glow penetrated the darkness where
the First Seeker sat and transformed his face into a skull.
4 The Talismans of Shannara
Yes, he nodded finally.
The Dark Uncle was obsessed with his Druid heritage. Send
him something to play against that weakness, something that
would confuse and frustrate him. Send him the Four Horse-
men.
And the girl. Wren Elessedil had lost her protector and ad-
viser. Give her someone to fill that void. Give her one of his
own choosing, one who would soothe and comfort her, who
would ease her fears, then betray her and strip her of every-
thing.
The others were no serious threat—not even the leader of
the free-bom and the Highlander. They could do nothing with-
out the Ohmsford heirs. If the Dark Uncle was imprisoned in
his Keep and the Elf Queen’s brief reign ended, the Druid
shade’s carefully constructed plans would collapse about him.
Allanon would sink back into the Hadeshorn with the rest of
his ghost kin, consigned to the past where he belonged.
Yes, the others were insignificant.
But he would deal with them anyway.
And even if all his efforts failed, even if he could do noth-
ing more than chase them about, harry them as a dog would its
prey, still that would be sufficient if in the end Par Ohmsford’s
soul fell to him. He needed only that to put an end to all of the
hopes of his enemies. Only that. It was a short walk to the
precipice, and the Valeman was already moving toward it. His
brother would be the staked goat that would bring him, that
would draw him like a wolf at hunt. Coil Ohmsford was deep
under the spell of the Mirrorshroud by now, a slave to the
magic from which the cloak was formed. He had stolen it to
disguise himself, never guessing that Rimmer Dall had in-
tended as much, never suspecting that it was a deadly snare to
turn him to the First Seeker’s own grim purpose. Coil
Ohmsford would hunt his brother down and force a confronta-
tion. He would do so because the cloak would let him do noth-
ing less, settling a madness within him that only his brother’s