the Valeman, and the moor cat. They needed to reach Par with-
out being discovered. They needed to gain at least that much
time before having to fight.
He bent close to them. “Hold me upright. Do not let me go
and do not move from this spot.”
Then he closed his eyes and went out from himself in spirit
form to enter the keep.
Within the dark confines of his prison cell Par Ohmsford sat
hunched over on his pallet, trying to hold himself together. He
was desperate now, feeling as if another day within the tower
would mark the end of him, as if another day spent wondering
if the magic was changing him irreparably would unhinge him
completely. He could feel the magic working through him all
the time now, racing down his limbs, boiling through his blood,
nipping and scratching at his skin like an itch that could never
The Talismans of Shannara 403
be satisfied. He hated what was happening to him. He hated
who he was. He hated Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen and
Southwatch and the black hole of his life to which he had been
condemned. Hope no longer had meaning for him. He had lost
his belief that the magic was a gift, that Allanon’s shade had
dispatched him into the world to serve some important purpose,
that there were lines of distinction between good and evil, and
that he was meant to survive what was happening to him.
He hugged his knees to his chest and cried. He was sick at
heart and filled with despair. He would never be free of this
place. He would never see Coil or Damson or any of the others
again—if any of them were even still alive. He looked through
the bars of his narrow window and thought that the world be-
yond might have akeady become the nightmare that Allanon
had shown him so long ago. He thought that perhaps it had al-
ways been like that and only his misperception of things had
let him believe it was anything else.
He was careful not to fall asleep. He didn’t dare sleep at all
anymore because he couldn’t stand the dreams that sleep
brought. He could feel himself beginning to accept the dreams
as fact, to believe that it must be true that he was a Shadowen.
His sense of things was fragmented on waking, and he could
not escape the feeling that he was no longer himself. Rimmer
Dall was a dark figure promising help and offering something
else. Rimmer Dall was the chance he dared not take—and the
chance that he eventually must.
No. No. Never.
There was a stirring in the air where the door to his cell
stood closed and barred. He sensed it before he saw it, then
caught a glimpse of shadows passing across the night. He
blinked, thinking it another of his demons come to haunt him,
another vestige of his encroaching madness. He brushed at the
air before his eyes in response, as if that might clear his vision
so that he could see better what he knew wasn’t there. He al-
most laughed when he heard the voice.
Par. Listen to me.
He shook his head. Why should he?
Par Ohmsford!
The voice was sharp-edged and brittle with anger. Par’s
head snapped up at once.
404 The Talismans of Shannara
Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Who am I? Speak my
name.
Par stared at the black nothingness before him, thinking that
he had gone mad indeed. The voice he was listening to was
Walker Boh’s.
Speak my name!
“Walker,” he whispered.
The word was a spark in the blackness of his despair, and
he jerked upright at its bright flare, legs dropping back down
to the floor, arms falling to his sides. He stared at the gloom
in disbelief, hearing the demons shriek and scatter.
Listen to me. Par. We have come for you. We have come to
set you free and take you away. Coil is with me. And Morgan.
And Damson Rhee.
“No.” He could not help himself. The word was spoken be-
fore he could think better of it. But it was what he believed.